i 


Mary  J.   L.   Mc  I^onald 


2 


THOMAS    WINGFOLD. 


OMAS  WINGFOLD, 


CURATE 


» » *  . 


GEORGE    MACDONALD,   LL.D., 

AUTHOR    OF 

OF  A  Quiet  Neighbourhood,"  "  The  Seaboard  Parish,''  etc. 


:GE  ROUTLEDGE  AND  SONS,  Limited 
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IN  MEMORIAM 


V-\3' 


^    " 


\c-  W£rvA2».\A. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Helen  Lingard i 

II.  Thomas  Wingfold 8 

III.  The  Diners 14 

IV.  Their  Talk 20 

V.  A  staggering  Question. , 27 

VI.  The  Curate  in  the  Churchyard 34 

VII.  The  Cousins 40 

VIII.  The  Garden 47 

IX.  The  Park 53 

X.  The  Dwarfs 59 

XI.  The  Curate  at  Home 66 

X II.  An  Incident 74 

XIII.  A  Report  of  Progress 79 

XIV.  Jeremy  Taylor 83 

XV.  The  Park  Gate 87 

XVI.  The  Attic 92 

XVII.   Polwarth's  Plan 9S 

XVIII.  Joseph   Polwarth 106 

XIX.  The   Conclusion  of  the  whole  Matter..: 117 

XX.  A  Strange  Sermon 122 

XXI.  A  Thunderbolt 13c 


984410 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.  Leopold 136 

XXIII.  The  Refuge 142 

XXIV.  Helen  with  a  Secret 151 

XXV.  A  Daylight  Visit 156 

XXVI.  Leopold's  Story 162 

XXVII.  Leopold's  Story  concluded 167 

XXVin.  Sisterhood 175 

XXIX.  The  Sick-Chamber 180 

^     XXX.  The  Curate's  Progress 187 

XXXI.  The  Curate  makes  a  Discovery 193 

XXXn.  Hopes 2or 

XXXIIL  The  Ride 206 

XXXIV.  Rachel  and  her  Uncle 215 

XXXV.  A  Dream 220 

XXXVI.  Another  Sermon 229 

XXXVII.  Nursing 235 

XXXVIII.  Glaston  and  the  Curate 242 

XXXIX.  The  Linen-Draper 248 

XL.  Rachel 260 

XLI.  The  Butterfly 270 

XLII.  The  Commonplace 273 

XLIII.  Home  again 281 

XLIV.  The  Sheath 285 

XLV.   Invitation 293 

XLVI.  A  Sermon  to  Helen 296 

XLVII.  A  Sermon  to  Himself 304 

XLVIII.  Criticism 308 

XLIX.  A  vanishing  Glimmer 315 

L.  Let  us  Pray 320 

LI.  Two  Letters 325 

LII.  Advice  in  the  Dark 328 

LIII.  Intercession 334 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

LIV.  Helen  alone 337 

LV.  A  Haunted  Soul 342 

LVI.  Compelled  Confidence 348 

LVn.  Willing  Confidence 356 

LVni.  The  Curate's  Counsel 360 

LIX.  Sleep 366 

LX.  Divine  Service 372 

LXI.  A  Shop  in  Heaven 381 

LXH.  Pohvarth  and  Lingard 392 

LXni.  The  strong  Man   405 

LXIV.  George  and  Leopold 412 

LXV.  Wingfold  and  Helen 417 

LXVI.  A  Review 425 

LXVII.  A  Sermon  to  Leopold 430 

LXVIIL  After  the  Sermon 443 

LXIX.  Bascombe  and  the  Magistrate 450 

LXX.  The  Confession 456 

LXXL  The  Mask 462 

LXXH.  Further  Decision 468 

LXXHL  The  Curate  and  the  Doctor 473 

LXXIV.  Helen  and  the  Curate 481 

LXXV.  An  Examination 488 

LXXVL  Immortality 492 

LXXVn.  Passages   from    the   Autobiography    of    the 

Wandering   Jew 500 

LXXVHL  The  Wandering  Jew 504 

LXXIX.  Do.  515 

LXXX.  Remarks 527 

LXXXL  Struggles 531 

LXXXn.  The  Lawn !.   538 

LXXXHL  How  Jesus  spoke  to  Women 549 

LXXXIV.  Deliverance 557 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

LXXXV,  The  Meadow 562 

LXXXVL  Rachel  and  Leopold 575 

LXXXVII.  The  Blood-houud 581 

LXXXVIII.  The  Blood  hound  traversed 587 

LXXXIX.  The  Bedside 598 

XC.  The  Garden 608 

XCI.  The  Departure 612 

XCII.  The  Sunset 618 

XCIII.  An  honest  Spy 626 

XCIV.  What  Helen  heard 631 

XCV.  What  Helen  heard  more 637 

XCVL  The  Curate's  Resolve 645 

XCVn.  Helen  awake 653 

XCVUI.  Thou  didst  not  leave.. ., 660 


THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


CHAPTER    1. 


HELEN     LINGARD. 


SWIFT  gray  November  wind  had  taken 
every  chimney  of  the  house  fbr  an  organ- 
pipe,  and  was  roaring  in  them  all  at  once, 
quelling  the  more  distant  and  varied 
noises  of  the  woods,  which  moaned  and  surged  like  a 
sea.  Helen  Lingurd  had  not  been  out  all  day.  The 
morning,  indeed,  had  been  fine,  but  she  had  been  writ- 
ing a  long  letter  to  her  brother  Leopold  at  Cambridge, 
and  had  put  oH  her  walk  in  the  neighboring  park  till 
after  luncheon,  and  in  the  meantime  the  wind  had  risen, 
and  brought  with  it  a  haze  that  threatened  rain.  She 
was  in  admirable  health,  had  never  had  a  day's  illness 
in  her  life,  was  hardly  more  afraid  of  getting  wet  than  a 
young   farmer,  and  enjoyed  wind,  especially  when  she 

A 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


was  on  horseback.  Yet  as  she  stood  looking  from  her 
window,  across  a  balcony  where  shivered  more  than  one 
autumnal  plant  that  ought  to  have  been  removed  a 
week  ago,  out  upon  the  old-fashioned  garden  and  mea- 
dows beyond,  where  each  lonely  tree  bowed  with  drift- 
ing garments — I  was  going  to  say  like  a  suppliant,  but 
it  was  away  from  its  storming  enemy — she  did  not 
feel  inclined  to  go  out.  That  she  was  health}^  was  no 
reason  why  she  should  be  unimpressible,  any  more 
than  that  good  temper  should  be  a  reason  for 
njdifier£oc;e  to-  the  behavior  of  one's  friend.  She 
always  felt  happier  in  a  new  dress,  when  it  was 
m?.de  to,  her  nnnd^and  fitted  her  body;  and  when 
the  sun  shone  she  was  lighter-hearted  than  when  it 
rained  :  I  had  written  merrier,  but  Helen  was  seldom 
merry,  and  had  she  been  made  aware  of  the  fact  and 
questioned  why,  would  have  answered — Because  she  so 
seldom  saw  reason.  She  was  what  all  her  friends  called 
a  sensible  girl  ;  but,  as  I  say,  that  was  no  reason  why 
she  should  be  an  insensible  girl  as  well,  and  be  subject 
to  none  of  the  influences  of  the  weather.  She  did  fetJ 
those  influences,  and  therefore  it  was  that  she  turned 
away  from  the  window  with  the  sense,  rather  than  tlif- 
conviction,  that  the  fireside  in  her  own  room  was  ren- 
dered even  more  attractive  by  the  unfriendly  aspect  ot 
things  outside  and  the  roar  in  the  chimney,  which  hap- 
pily was  not  accompanied  by  a  change  in  the  current  of 
the  smoke. 

The  hours  between  luncheon  and  tea  arc  confessedly 
dull,   but  dullness  is  not  inimical  to  a  certain  kind  of 


HELEN    LINGARD. 


comfort,  and  Helen  liked  to  be  that  way  comfortable. 
Nor  had  she  ever  yet  been  aware  of  self-rebuke  because 
of  the  liking.  Let  us  see  what  kind  and  degree  of  com- 
fort she  had  in  the  course  of  an  hour  and  a  half  attained. 
A.nd  in  discovering  this,  I  shall  be  able  to  present  her 
to  my  reader  with  a  little  more  circumstance. 

She  sat  before  the  fire  in  a  rather  masculine  posture. 
I  would  not  willingly  be  rude,  but  the  fact  remains — a 
posture  in  which  she  would  not,  I  think,  have  sat  for 
her  photograph — leaning  back  in  a  chintz-covered  easy- 
chair,  all  the  lines  of  direction  about  her  parallel  with 
the  lines  of  the  chair,  her  arms  lying  on  its  arms,  and 
the  fingers  of  each  hand  folded  down  over  the  end  of 
each  arm — square,  straight,  right-arigled— gazing  into 
the  fire,  with  something  of  the  look  of  a  sage,  but  one 
who  has  made  no  discovery. 

She  had  just  finished  the  novel  of  the  day,  and  was 
suffering  a  mild  reaction — the  milder,  perhaps,  that  she 
was  not  altogether  satisfied  with  the  consummation. 
For  the  heroine  had,  after  much  sorrow  and  patient  en- 
durance, at  length  married  a  man  whom  she  could  not 
help  knowing  to  be  not  worth  having.  For  the  author 
even  knew  it,  only  such  was  his  reading  of  life,  and  such 
his  theory  of  artistic  duty,  that  what  it  was  a  disappoint- 
ment to  Helen  to  peruse,  it  seemed  to  have  been  a  com- 
fort to  him  to  write.  Indeed  her  dissatisfaction  went 
so  far,  that,  although  the  fire  kept  burning  away  in  per- 
fect content  before  her,  enhanced  by  the  bellowing 
complaint  of  the  wind  in  the  chimney,  she  yet  came 
nearer  thinking  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life. 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


Now  thinking,  especially  to  one  who  tries  it  for  the  first 
time,  is  seldom  ornevera  quite  comfortable  operation, 
and  hence  Helen  was  very  near  becoming  actually  un- 
comfortable. She  was  even  on  the  borders  of  making  the 
unpleasant  discovery  that  the  business  of  life — and  that 
not  only  for  north-pole  expeditions,  African  explorers, 
pyramid-inspectors,  and  such  like,  but  for  every  man 
and  woman  born  into  the  blindness  of  the  planet,  is  to 
discover — after  which  discovery  there  is  little  more 
comfort  to  be  had  of  the  sort  with  which  Helen  was 
chiefly  conversant.  But  she  escaped  for  the  time  after 
a  very  simple  and  primitive  fashion,  although  it  was  in- 
deed a  narrow  escape. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood,  however,  and  supposed 
to  imply  that  Helen  was  dull  in  faculty,  or  that  she  con- 
tributed nothing  to  the  bubbling  of  the  intellectual  pool 
in  the  social  gatherings  at  Glaston.  Far  from  it.  When 
I  say  that  she  came  near  thinking,  I  say  more  for  her 
than  any  but  the  few  who  know  what  thinking  is  will 
understand,  for  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  man 
from  those  he  calls  the  lower  animals  is  the  faculty  hs 
most  rarely  exercises.  True,  Helen  supposed  she  could 
think — like  other  people,  because  the  thoughts  of  other 
people  had  passed  through  her  in  tolerable  plenty, 
leaving  many  a  phantom  conclusion  behind  ;  but  this 
Was  M<?/>- thinking,  not  hers.  She  had  thought  no  more 
than  was  necessary  now  and  then  to  the  persuasion  that 
she  saw  what  a  sentence  meant,  after  which  her  accep- 
tance or  rejection  of  what  was  contained  in  it,  never 
more  than  lukewarm,  depended  solely  upon  its  relation 


HELEN    LINGARD.  5 


to  what  she  had  somehow  or  other,  she  could  seldom 
have  told  how,  come  to  regard  as  the  proper  style  of 
opinion  to  hold  upon  things  in  general. 

The  social  matrix  which  up  to  this  time  had  minis- 
tered to  her  development,  had  some  relations  with  May- 
fair,  it  is  true,  but  scanty  ones  indeed  with  the  universe  ; 
so  that  her  present  condition  was  like  that  of  the  com- 
mon bees,  every  one  of  which  Nature  fits  for  a  queen, 
but  its  nurses  prevent  from  growing  one  by  providing 
for  it  a  cell  too  narrow  for  the  unrolling  of  royalty,  and 
supplying  it  with  food  not  potent  enough  for  the  nur- 
ture of  the  ideal — with  this  difference,  however,  that 
the  cramped  and  stinted  thing  comes  out,  if  no  queen, 
then  a  working  bee,  and  Helen,  who  might  be  both,  was 
neither  yet.  If  I  were  at  liberty  to  mention  the  books 
on  her  table,  it  would  give  a  few  of  my  readers  no  small 
help  towards  the  settling  of  her  position  in  the  "  valued 
file"  of  the  young  women  of  her  generation  ;  but  there 
are  reasons  against  it. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  an  officer,  who,  her  mother 
dying  when  she  was  born,  committed  her  to  the  care  of 
a  widowed  aunt,  and  almost  immediately  left  for  India, 
where  he  rose  to  high  rank,  and  somehow  or  other 
amassed  a  considerable  fortune,  partly  through  his  mar- 
riage with  a  Hindoo  lady,  by  whom  he  had  one  child,  a 
boy  some  three  years  younger  than  Helen.  When  he 
died,  he  left  his  fortune  equally  divided  between  the 
two  children. 

Helen  was  now  three-and-twenty,  and  her  own  mis- 
tress.    Her  appearance  suggested  Norwegian  blood,  for 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


she  was  tall,  blue-eyed,  and  dark-haired — but  fair- 
skinned,  with  regular  features,  and  an  over  still — some 
who  did  not  like  her  said  hard — expression  of  counte- 
nance. No  one  had  ever  called  her  Nelly  ;  yet  she  had 
long  remained  a  girl,  lingering  on  the  broken  border- 
land after  several  of  her  school  companions  had  become 
young  matrons.  Her  drawing  master,  a  man  of  some 
observation  and  insight,  used  to  say  MissLingard  would 
wake  up  somewhere  about  forty. 

The  cause  of  her  so  nearly  touching  the  borders  of 
thought  this  afternoon,  was — that  she  became  suddenly 
aware  of  feeling  bored.  Now  Helen  was  even  seldomer 
bored  than  merry,  and  this  time  she  saw  no  reason  for 
it,  neither  had  any  person  to  lay  the  blame  upon.  She 
might  have  said  it  was  the  weather,  but  the  weather  had 
never  done  it  before.  Nor  could  it  be  want  of  society, 
for  George  Bascombe  was  to  dme  with  them.  So  was 
the  curate,  but  he  did  not  count  for  much.  Neither  \t as 
she  weary  of  herself.  That,  indeed,  might  be  only  a 
question  of  time,  for  the  most  complete  egotist,  Julius 
Cagsar,  or  Napoleon  Buonaparte,  must  at  length  get 
weary  of  his  paltry  self;  but  Helen,  from  the  slow  rate 
of  her  expansion,was  not  old  enough  yet.  Nor  was  she 
in  any  special  sense  wrapt  up  in  herself  :  it  was  only 
that  she  had  never  yet  broken  the  shell  which  continues 
to  shut  in  so  many  human-chickens,  long  after  they 
imagine  themselves  citizens  of  the  real  world. 

Being  somewhat  bored  then,  and  dimly  aware  that 
to  be  bored  was  to  be  out  of  harmony  with  some- 
thing or  other,  Helen  was  on  the  verge  of  thinking, 


HELEN    LINGARD. 


but,  as  I  have  said,  escaped  the  snare  in  a  very  direct  and 
simple  fashion  :  she  went  fast  asleep,  and  never  woke  ^ 
till  her  maid  brought  her  the  cup  of  kitchen-tea  from 
which  the  inmates  of  some  houses  derive  the  strength 
to  prepare  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THOMAS    WINGFOLD. 

HE  morning,  whose  afternoon  was  thus  stor- 
my, had  been  fine,  and  the  curate  went  out 
for  a  walk.  Had  it  been  just  as  stormy, 
however,  he  would  have  gone  all  the  same. 
Not  that  he  was  a  great  walker,  or  indeed  fond  of  exer- 
cise of  any  sort,  and  his  walking,  as  an  Irishman  might 
say,  was  half-sitting — on  stiles  and  stones  and  fallen  trees. 
He  was  not  in  bad  health,  he  was  not  lazy,  or  given  to 
self-preservation,  but  he  had  little  impulse  to  activity  of 
any  sort.  The  springs  in  his  well  of  life  did  not  seem 
lo  flow  quite  fast  enough. 

He  strolled  through  Osterfield  park,  and  down  the 
deep  descent  to  the  river,  where,  chilly  as  it  was,  he 
seated  himself  upon  a  large  stone  on  the  bank,  and 
knew  that  he  was  there,  and  that  he  had  to  answer  to 
Thomas  Wingfoid ;  but  why  he  was  there,  and  why  he 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD. 


was  not  called  something  else,  he  did  not  know.  On 
each  side  of  the  stream  rose  a  steeply  sloping  bank,  on 
which  grew  many  fern-bushes,  now  half-withered,  and 
the  sunlight  upon  them,  this  November  morning, 
seemed  as  cold  as  the  wind  that  blew  about  their  golden 
and  green  fronds.  Over  a  rocky  bottom  the  stream 
went — talking  rather  than  singing — down  the  valley  to- 
wards the  town,  where  it  seemed  to  linger  a  moment  to 
embrace  the  old  abbey  church,  before  it  set  out  on  its 
leisurely  slide  through  the  low  level  to  the  sea.  Its  talk 
was  chilly,  and  its  ripples,  which  came  half  from  the  ob- 
structions in  its  channel  below,  and  half  from  the  wind 
that  ruffled  it  above,  were  not  smiles,  but  wrinkles  ra- 
ther— even  in  the  sunshine.  Thomas  felt  cold  himself, 
but  the  cold  was  of  the  sort  that  comes  from  the  look 
rather  than  the  feel  of  things.  He  did  not,  however, 
much  care  how  he  felt — not  enough  certainly  to  have 
made  him  put  on  a  great  coat:  he  was  not  deeply  inte- 
rested in  himself.  With  his  stick,  a  very  ordinary  bit  of 
oak,  he  kept  knocking  pebbles  into  the  water,  and  list- 
lessly watching  them  splash.  The  wind  blew,  the  sun 
shone,  the  water  ran,  the  ferns  waved,  the  clouds  went 
drifting  over  his  head — but  he  never  looked  up,  or  took 
any  notice  of  the  doings  of  Mother  Nature  at  her 
housework  :  everything  seemed  to  him  to  be  doing  only 
what  it  had  got  to  do,  because  it  had  got  it  to  do,  and 
not  because  it  cared  about  it,  or  had  any  end  in  doing  it. 
For  he,  like  every  other  man.  could  read  nature  only  by 
his  own  lamp,*  and  this  was  very  much  how  he  had^ 
hitherto  responded  to  the  demands  made  upon  him. 


lO  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


His  life  had  not  been  a  very  interesting  one,  although 
early  passages  in  it  had  been  painful.  He  had  done 
fairly  well  at  Oxford  :  it  had  been  expected  of  him,  and 
he  had  answered  expectation  ;  he  had  not  distinguished 
himself,  nor  cared  to  do  so.  He  had  known  from  the 
first  that  he  was  intended  for  the  church,  and  had  not 
objected,  but  received  it  as  his  destiny — had  even,  in 
dim  obedience,  kept  before  his  mental  vision  the  neces- 
sity of  yielding  to  the  heights  and  hollows  of  the  mould 
into  which  he  was  being  thrust.  But  he  had  taken  no 
great  interest  in  the  matter. 

The  church  was  to  him  an  ancient  institution  of  such 
approved  respectability  that  it  was  able  to  communicate 
it,  possessing  emoluments,  and  requiring  observances. 
He  had  entered  her  service  ;  she  was  his  mistress,  and 
in  return  for  the  narrow  shelter,  humble  fare,  and  not 
quite  too  shabby  garments  she  allotted  him,  he  would 
perform  her  bests — in  the  spirit  of  a  servant  who  abid- 
eth  not  in  the  house  forever.  He  was  now  six-and- 
twenty  years  of  age,  and  had  never  dreamed  of  mar- 
riage, or  even  been  troubled  with  a  thought  of  its  unat- 
tainable remoteness.  He  did  not  philosophise  much 
upon  life,  or  his  position  in  it,  taking  everything  with  a 
cold,  hopeless  kind  of  acceptance,  and  laying  no  claim 
to  courage,  devotion,  or  even  bare  suffering.  He 
j  had  a  certain  dull  prejudice  in  favor  of  honesty, 
would  not  have  told  the  shadow  of  a  lie  to  be  made 
archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  yet  was  so  uninstructed 
in  the  things  that  constitute  practical  honesty  that  some 
of  his  opinions  would  have  considerably  astonished  St. 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD. 


Paul.  He  liked  reading  the  prayers,  for  the  making  of 
them  vocal  in  church  was  pleasant  to  him,  and  he 
had  a  not  unmusical  voice.  He  visited  the  sick — with 
some  repugnance  it  is  true,  but  without  delay,  and 
spoke  to  them  such  religious  commonplaces  as  occurred 
to  him,  depending  mainly  on  the  prayers  belonging  to 
their  condition  for  the  right  performance  of  his  office. 
He  never  thought  about  being  a  gentleman,  but  always 
behaved  like  one. 

I  suspect  that  at  this  time  there  lay  somewhere  in  his 
mind,  keeping  generally  well  out  of  sight  however,  that 
is,  below  the  skin  of  his  consciousness,  the  unacknow- 
ledged feeling  that  he  had  been  hardly  dealt  with.  But 
at  no  time  even  when  it  rose  plainest,  would  he  have 
dared  to  add — by  Providence.  Had  the  temptation  come, 
he  would  have  banished  it  and  the  feeling  together. 

He  did  not  read  much,  browsed  over  his  newspaper  at 
breakfast  with  a  polite  curiosity,  sufficient  to  season  the 
loneliness  of  his  slice  of  fried  bacon,  and  took  more  inte- 
rest in  some  of  the  naval  intelligence  than  in  any  thing 
else.  Indeed  it  would  have  been  difficult  tor  himself  even 
to  say  in  what  he  did  take  a  large  interest.  When  leisure 
awoke  a  question  as  to  how  he  should  employ  it,  he 
would  generally  take  up  his  Horace  and  read  aloud  one 
of  his  more  mournful  odes — with  such  attention  to  the 
rhythm,  I  must  add,  as,  although  plentiful  enough 
among  scholars  in  respect  of  the  dead  letter,  is  rarely 
found  with  them  in  respect  of  the  living  vocal  utterance. 

Nor  had  he  now  sat  long  upon  his  stone,  heedless  of 
the  world's  preparation  for  winter,  befcre  he  began  re- 


12  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

peating  to  himself  the  poet's  ^quam  memento  rebus  in 
arduis,  which  he  had  been  trying  much,  but  with  small 
success,  to  reproduce  in  similar  English  cadences, 
moved  thereto  in  part  by  the  success  of  Tennyson  in 
his  <9  mtghty-inouthed  inventor  of  harmomes — a  thing  as 
yet  alone  in  the  language,  so  far  as  I  know.  It  was  per- 
haps a  little  strange  that  the  curate  should  draw  the 
strength  of  which  he  was  most  conscious  from  the 
pages  of  a  poet  whose  hereafter  was  chiefly  serviceable 
to  him— in  virtue  of  its  unsubstantiality  and  poverty, 
the  dreamlike  thinness  of  its  reality — in  enhancing  the 
pleasures  of  the  world  of  sun  and  air,  cooling  shade  and 
songful  streams,  the  world  of  wine  and  jest,  of  forms 
that  melted  more  slowly  from  encircling  arms,  and  eyes 
that  did  not  so  swiftly  fade  and  vanish  in  the  distance. 
Yet  when  one  reflects  but  for  a  moment  on  ihe  poverty- 
stricken  expectations  of  Christians  from  their  hereafter, 
I  cease  to  wonder  at  Wingfold  ;  for  human  sympathy  is 
lovely  and  pleasant,  and  if  a  Christian  priesc  and  a 
pagan  poet  feel  much  in  the  same  tone  concerning  the 
affairs  of  the  universe,  why  should  they  not  comfort 
each  other  by  sitting  down  together  in  the  dust  } 

"  No  hair  it  boots  thee  whether  from  Inachus 
Ancient  descended,  or,  of  the  poorest  born, 
Thy  being  drags,  all  bare  and  roofless — 
Victim  the  same  to  the  heartless  Orcus.' 

All  are  on  one  road  driven  ;  for  each  of  us 
The  urn  is  tossed,  and,  later  or  earlier, 
The  lot  will  drop  and  all  be  sentenced 
Into  the  boat  of  eternal  exile." 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD.  1 3 

Having  thus  far  succeeded  with  these  two  stanzas, 
Wingfold  rose,  a  little  pleased  with  himself,  and  climbed 
the  bank  above  him,  wading  through  mingled  sun  and 
wind  and  ferns — so  careless  of  their  shivering  beauty 
and  their  coming  exile  that  a  watcher  might  have  said 
the  prospect  of  one  day  leaving  behind  him  the  shows 
of  this  upper  world  could  have  no  part  in  the  cuiate's 
sympathy  with  Horace. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    DINERS. 

RS.  RAMSHORN,  Helen's  aunt,  was  past  the 
middle  age  ot  woman ;  had  been  handsome 
and  pleasing  ;  had  long  ceased  to  be  either  ; 
had  but  sparingly  recognized  the  fact, 
yet  had  recognized  it,  and  felt  aggrieved.  Hence  in 
part  it  was  that  her  mouth  had  gathered  that  peevish 
and  wronged  expression  which  tends  to  produce  a 
moral  nausea  in  the  beholder.  If  she  had  but  known 
how  much  uglier  in  the  eyes  of  her  own  fellow-mortals 
her  own  discontent  had  made  her,  than  the  severest 
operation  of  the  laws  of  mortal  decay  could  have  done, 
she  might  have  tried  to  think  less  of  her  wrongs  and 
more  of  her  privileges.  As  it  was,  her  own  face  wronged 
her  own  heart,  which  was  still  womanly,  and  capable 
of  much  pity — seldom  exercised.  Her  husband  had 
been  dean  of  Halystone,  a  man  of  sufficient  weight  of 
character  to  have  the  right  influence  in  the  formation 
of  his  wife's.  He  had  left  her  tolerably  comfortable  as 
to  circumstances,  but  childless.  She  loved  Helen, 
whose  even  imperturbability  had  by  mere  weight,  as  it 


THE   DINERS.  1 5 


might  seem,  gained  such  a  power  over  her  that  she  was 
really  mistress  in  the  house  without  either  of  them 
knowing  it. 

Naturally  desirous  of  keeping  Helen's  fortune  in  the 
family,  and  having,  as  I  say,  no  son  of  her  own,  she  had 
yet  not  far  to  look  to  find  a  cousin  capable,  as  she  might 
well  imagine,  cf  rendering  himself  acceptable  to  the 
heiress.  He  was  the  son  of  her  younger  sister,  married, 
like  herself,  to  a  dignitary  of  the  church,  a  canon  of  a 
northern  cathedral.  This  youth,  therefore,  George 
Bascombe  by  name,  whose  visible  calling  at  present  was 
to  eat  his  way  to  the  bar,  she  often  invited  to  Glas- 
ton  ;  and  on  this  Friday  afternoon  he  was  on  his  way 
from  London  to  spend  the  Saturday  and  Sunday  with 
the  two  ladies.  The  cousins  liked  each  other,  had  not 
had  more  of  each  other's  society  than  was  favorable  to 
their  aunt's  designs,  who  was  far  too  prudent  to  have 
made  as  yet  any  reference  to  them,  and  stood  altogether 
in  as  suitable  a  relative  position  for  falling  in  love  with 
each  other  as  Mrs.  Ramshorn  could  well  have  desired. 
Her  chief,  almost  her  only,  uneasiness  arose  from  the 
important  and  but  too  evident  fact  that  Helen  Lingard 
was  not  a  girl  of  the  sort  to  fall  readily  in  love.  That, 
however,  was  of  no  consequence,  provided  it  did  not 
come  in  the  way  of  her  marrying  her  cousin,  who,  her 
aunt  felt  confident,  was  better  fitted  to  rouse  her  dor- 
mant affections  than  any  other  youth  she  had  ever  seen 
or  was  ever  likely  to  see.  Upon  this  occasion  she  had 
asked  Thomas  Wingfold  to  meet  him.  partly  with  the 
design  that  he  should  act  as  a  foil  to  her  nephew,  partly 


l6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


in  order  to  do  her  duty  by  the  church,  to  which  she  felt 
herself  belong  not  as  a  lay  member,  but  in  some  unde- 
fined professional  capacity,  in  virtue  of  her  departed 
dean.  Wingfold  had  but  lately  come  to  the  parish,  and, 
as  he  was  merely  curate,  she  had  not  been  in  haste  to 
invite  him.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  the  only  clergy- 
man officiating  in  the  abbey  church,  which  was  grand 
and  old,  with  a  miserable  living  and  a  non-resident  rec- 
tor. He,  to  do  him  justice,  paid  nearly  the  amount  of 
the  tithes  in  salary  to  his  curate,  and  spent  the  rest  on 
the  church  material,  of  which,  for  certain  reasons,  he 
retained  the  incumbency,  the  presentation  to  which  be- 
longed to  his  own  family. 

The  curate  presented  himself  at  the  dinner-hour  in 
Mrs.  Ramshorn's  drawing-room,  looking  like  any  other 
gentleman,  satisfied  with  his  share  in  the  administration 
of  things,  and  affecting  nothing  of  the  professional  either 
in  dress,  manner,  or  tone.  Helen  saw  him  for  the  first 
time  in  private  life,  and,  as  she  had  expected,  saw  noth- 
ing remarkable — a  man  who  looked  about  thirty,  was  a 
little  over  the  middle  height,  and  well  enough  con- 
structed as  men  go,  had  a  good  forehead,  a  questionable 
nose,  clear  gray  eyes,  long,  mobile,  sensitive  mouth, 
large  chin,  pale  complexion,  and  straight  black  hair,  and 
might  have  been  a  lawyer  just  as  well  as  a  clergyman.  A 
keener — that  is,  a  more  interested — eye  than  hers  might 
have  discovered  traces  of  suffering  in  the  forms  of  the 
wrinkles  which,  as  he  talked,  would  now  and  then  flit 
like  ripples  over  his  forehead  ;  but  Helen's  eyes  seldom 
did  more  than  slip  over  the  faces  presented  to  her  ;  and 


THE   DINERS.  1 7 


had  it  been  otherwise,  who  could  be  expected  to  pay 
much  regard  to  Thomas  Wingfold  when  George  Bas- 
combe  was  present  ?  There,  indeed,  stood  a  man  by  the 
corner  of  the  mantel-piece  ! — tall  and  handsome  as  an 
Apollo  and  strong  as  the  young  Hercules,  dressed  in 
the  top  of  the  plainest  fashion,  self-satisfied,  but  not 
oflfensivel}'  so,  good-natured,  ready  to  smile,  as  clean  in 
conscience,  apparently,  and  as  large  in  sympathy,  as  his 
shirt-front.  Everybody  who  knew  him  counted  George 
Bascombe  a  genuine  good  fellow,  and  George  himself 
knew  little  to  the  contrar}',  while  Helen  knew  nothing. 
One  who  had  only  chanced  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  in 
her  own  room,  as  in  imagination  my  reader  has  done, 
would  hardly  have  recognized  her  again  in  the  drawing- 
room.  For  in  her  own  room  she  was  but  as  she  ap- 
peared to  herself  in  her  mirror — dull,  inanimate  ;  but  in 
the  drawing-room  her  reflection  from  living  eyes  and 
presences  served  to  stir  up  what  waking  life  was  in  her. 
When  she  spoke,  her  face  dawned  with  a  clear,  although 
not  warm  light ;  and,  although  it  must  be  owned  that 
when  it  was  at  rest,  the  same  over-stillness,  amounting 
almost  to  dulness,  the  same  seeming  immobility,  ruled 
as  before,  yet,  even  when  she  was  not  speaking,  the  rest 
was  often  broken  by  a  smile — a  genuine  one,  for  al- 
though there  was  much  that  was  stiff,  there  was  nothing 
artificial  about  Helen.  Neither  was  there  much  of  the  * 
artificial  about  her  cousin  ;  for  his  good-nature  and  his 
smile,  and  whatever  else  appeared  upon  him,  were  all 
genuine  enough — the  only  thing  in  this  respect  not 
quite  satisfactory  to  the  morally  fastidious  man  being 


THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


his  tone  in  speaking.  Whether  he  had  caught  it  at  the 
university,  or  amongst  his  father's  clerical  friends,  or 
in  the  professional  society  he  now  frequented,  I  can 
not  tell,  but  it  had  been  manufactured  somewhere — after 
a  large,  scrolly  kind  of  pattern,  sounding  well-bred  and 
dignified.  I  wonder  how  many  speak  with  the  voices 
that  really  belong  to  them. 

Plainly,  to  judge  from  the  one  Bascombe  used,  he  was 
accustomed  to  lay  down  the  law,  but  in  gentlemanly 
fashion,  and  not  as  if  he  cared  a  bit  about  the  thing  in 
question  himself.  By  the  side  of  his  easy  carriage,  his 
broad  chest,  and  towering  Greek-shaped  head,  Thomas 
Wingfold  dwindled  almost  to  vanishing — in  a  word, 
looked  nobody.  And  besides  his  inferiority  in  size  and 
self-presentment,  he  had  a  slight  hesitation  of  manner, 
which  seemed  to  anticipate,  if  not  to  court,  the  subordi- 
nate position  which  most  men,  and  most  women  too, 
were  ready  to  assign  him.  He  said,  "  Don'i  you 
think  f"  far  oftener  than  "  I  think,"  and  was  always  more 
ready  to  fix  his  attention  upon  the  strong  points  of  an 
opponent's  argument  than  to  reassert  his  own  in 
slightly  altered  phrase  like  most  men,  or  even  in  fresh 
forms  like  a  few  ;  hence — self-assertion,  either  modestly 
worn  like  a  shirt  of  fine  chain-armor,  or  gaunt  and  ob- 
trusive like  plates  of  steel,  being  the  strength  of  the 
ordinary  man — what  could  the  curate  appear  but  de- 
fenceless, therefore  weak,  and  therefore  contemptible  ? 
The  truth  is,  he  had  less  self-conceit  than  a  mortal's 
usual  share;  and  was  not  yet  possessed  of  any  opinions 


THE   DINERS. 


interesting  enougii  to  himself  to  seem  worth  defending 
with  any  approach  to  vivacity. 

Bascombe  and  he  bowed  in  response  to  their  intro- 
duction with  proper  indifference,  after  a  moment's  so- 
lemn pause  exchanged  a  sentence  or  two  which  resem- 
bled an  exercise  in  the  proper  use  of  a  foreign  language, 
and  then  gave  what  attention  Englishmen  are  capable 
of  before  dinner  to  the  two  ladies — the  elder  of  whom,  I 
may  just  mention,  was  dressed  in  black  velvet  with 
heavy  Venetian  kice,  and  the  younger  in  black  silk  with 
old  Honiton.  Neither  of  them  did  much  towards  enliv- 
ening the  conversation.  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  whose  dinner 
had  as  yet  gained  in  interest  with  her  years,  sat  peevish- 
ly longing  for  its  arrival,  but  cast  every  now  and  then  a 
look  of  mild  satisfaction  upon  her  nephew,  which,  how- 
ever, while  it  made  her  eyes  sweeter,  did  not  much  alter 
the  expression  of  her  mouth.  Helen  fancied  she  im- 
proved the  arrangement  of  a  few  greenhouse  flowers  in 
an  ugly  vase  on  the  table. 

At  length  the  butler  appeared,  the  curate  took  Mrs. 
Ramshorn,  and  the  cousins  followed — making,  in  the 
judgment  of  the  butler  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  and  the 
housekeeper  as  she  peered  from  the  baize-covered  door 
that  led  to  the  still-room,  as  handsome  a  couple  as  mor- 
tal eyes  need  wish  to  see.  They  looked  nearly  of  an 
age,  the  lady  the  more  stately,  the  gentleman  the  more 
graceful,  or,  perhaps  rather,  elegant,  of  the  two. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THEIR   TALK. 

URING  dinner  Bascombe  had  the  talk  mostly 
to  himseW,  and  rattled  well,  occasionally  re- 
buked by  his  aunt  for  some  remark  which 
might  to  a  clergyman  appear  objectiona- 
ble ;  nor  as  a  partisan  was  she  altogether  satisfied 
with  the  curate  that  he  did  not  seem  inclined  to  take 
clerical  exception.  He  ate  his  dinner,  quietly  respond- 
ing to  Bascombe's  sallies — which  had  usually  more  of 
vivacity  than  keenness,  more  of  good  spirits  than  wit — 
with  a  curious  flickering  smile  or  a  single  word  of 
agreement.  It  might  have  seemed  that  he  was  humor- 
ing a  younger  man,  but  the  truth  was  the  curate  had  not 
yet  seen  cause  for  opposing  him. 

How  any  friend  could  have  come  to  send  Helen 
poetry  I  can  not  imagine,  but  that  very  morning  she 
had  received  by  post  a  small  volume  of  verse,  which, 
although  just  out,  and  by  an  unknown  author,  had  al- 
ready been  talked  of  in  what  are  called  literary  circles. 
Wingfold  had  read  some  extracts  from  the  book  that 
same  morning,  and  was  therefore  not  quite  unprepared 


THEIR   TALK.  21 


when  Helen  asked  him  if  he  had  seen  it.  He  suggested 
that  the  poems,  if  the  few  Hnes  he  had  seen  made  a  fair 
sample,  were  rather  of  the  wailful  order. 

"  If  there  is  one  thing  I  despise  more  than  another," 
said  Bascombe,  "  it  is  to  hear  a  man,  a  fellow  with  legs 
and  arms,  pour  out  his  griefs  into  the  bosom  of  that 
most  discreet  of  confidantes.  Society,  bewailing  his  hard 
fate,  and  calling  upon  youths  and  maidens  to  fill  their 
watering-pots  with  tears,  and  with  him  water  the  sor- 
rowful pansies  and  undying  rue  of  the  race.  I  believe  I 
am  quoting." 

"  I  think  you  must  be,  George,"  said  Helen.  "  I 
never  knew  you  venture  so  near  the  edge  of  poetry  be- 
fore." 

"Ah,  that  is  all  you  know  of  me.  Miss  Lingard  !"  re- 
turned Bascombe.  " — And  then,"  he  resumed,  turning 
again  to  Wingfold,  "  what  is  it  they  complain  of  ?  That 
some  girl  preferred  a  better  man,  perhaps,  or  that  a 
penny  paper  once  told  the  truth  about  their  poetry." 

"  Or  it  may  be  only  that  it  is  their  humor  to  be  sad," 
said  Wingfold.  "  But  don't  you  think,"  he  continued, 
"  it  is  hardl)-  worth  while  to  be  indignant  with  them  ? 
Their  verses  are  a  relief  to  them,  and  do  nobody  any 
harm." 

"  They  do  all  the  boys  and  girls  harm  that  read  them, 
and  themselves  who  write  them,  more  harm  than  any 
body,  confirming  them  in  tearful  habits,  and  teaching 
eyes  unused  to  weep.  I  quote  again,  I  believe,  but  from 
whom  I  am  innocent. — If  I  ever  had  a  grief,  I  should 
have  along  with  it  the  decency  to  keep  it  to  myself." 


22  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  I  don't  doubt  you  would,  George,"  said  his  cousin, 
who  seemed  more  playfully  inclined  than  usual.  "  But," 
she  added,  with  a  smile,  "  would  your  silence  be  volun- 
tary or  enforced  ?" 

"What!"  returned  Bascombe,  "you  think  I  could 
not  plain  my  woes  to  the  moon  ?  Why  not  I  as  well  as 
another?     I  could  roar  you  as  'twere  any  nightingale." 

"  You  have  had  your  sorrows,  then,  George  ?" 

"  Never  any  thing  worse  yet  than  a  tailor's  bill,  Helen, 
and  I  hope  you  won't  provide  me  with  any.  I  am  not 
in  love  with  deca}^ — I  remember  a  fellow  at  Trinity,  the 
merriest  of  all  our  set  at  a  wine-party,  who,  alone  with 
his  ink-pot,  was  for  ever  enacting  the  part  of  the  un- 
heeded poet,  complaining  of  the  hard  hearts  and  tune- 
less cars  of  his  generation.  I  went  into  his  room  once, 
and  found  him  with  the  tears  running  down  his  face,  a 
pot  of  stout  half  empty  on  the  table,  and  his  den  all  but 
opaque  with  tobacco-smoke,  reciting  with  sobs — I  had 
repeated  the  lines  so  often  before  they  ceased  to  amuse 
me  that  I  can  never  forget  them — 

'  Heard'st  thou  a  quiver  and  clang? 

In  thy  sleep  did  it  make  thee  start? 
'Twas  a  chord  in  twain  that  sprang — 
But  the  lyre-shell  was  my  heart.' 

He  took  a  pull  at  the  stout,  laid  his  head  on  the  table, 
and  sobbed  like  a  locomotive." 

"  But  it's  not  very  bad — not  bad  at  all,  so  far  as  I  see," 
said  Helen,  who  had  a  woman's  weakness  for  the  side 
attacked,  in  addition  to  a  human  partiality  for  fair  play. 


THEIR  TALK.  23 


"  No,  not  bad  at  all — for  absolute  nonsense,"  saicl  Bas- 
combe. 

"  He  had  been  reading  Heine,"  said  Wingfold. 

"  And  burlesquing  him,"  returned  Bascombe.  "  Fancy- 
hearing  one  of  the  fellow's  heart-strings  crack,  and  tak- 
ing it  for  a  string  of  his  fiddle  in  the  press.  By  the 
way,  what  are  the  heart-strings  ?  Have  they  any  ana- 
tomical synonym.^  But  I  have  no  doubt  it  was  good 
poetry." 

"  Do  you  think  poetry  and  common  sense  necessarily 
opposed  to  each  other?"  asked  Wingfold. 

"  I  confess  a  leaning  to  that  opinion,"  replied  Bas- 
combe, with  a  half-conscious  smile. 

"  What  do  you  say  of  Horace,  now  ?"  suggested 
Wingfold. 

"  Unfortunately  for  me,  you  have  mentioned  the  one 
poet  for  whom  I  have  any  respect.  But  what  I  like  in 
him  is  just  his  common  sense.  He  never  cries  over 
spilt  milk,  even  if  the  jug  be  broken  to  the  bargain. 
But  common  sense  would  be  just  as  good  in  prose  as  in 
verse." 

"  Possibly  ;  but  what  we  have  of  it  in  Horace  would 
never  have  reached  us  but  for  the  forms  into  which  he 
has  cast  it.  How  much  more  enticing  acorns  in  the  cup 
are  ! — I  was  watching  two  children  picking  them  up  to- 
da5^" 

"  That  may  be  ;  there  have  always  been  more  children 
than  grown  men,"  returned  Bascombe,  "  For  my  part, 
I  would  sweep  away  all  illusions,  and  get  at  the  heart  of 
the  affair." 


24  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  But,"  said  Wingfold,  with  the  look  of  one  who,  as 
he  tries  to  say  it,  is  seeing  a  thing  for  the  first  time, 
"does  not  the  acorn-cup  belong  to  the  acorn  ?  May 
not  some  of  what  you  call  illusions  be  the  finer,  or  at 
least  more  ethereal,  qualities  of  the  thing  itself  ?  You 
do  not  object  to  music  in  church,  for  instance  ?" 

Bascombe  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  he  objected 
to  it  nowhere  except  in  church,  but  for  his  aunt's  sake, 
or  rather  for  his  own  sake  in  his  aunt's  eyes,  he  re- 
strained himself,  and  uttered  his  feelings  only  in  a  pe- 
culiar smile,  of  import  so  mingled  that  its  meaning  was 
illegible  ere  it  had  quivered  along  his  lip  and  vanished. 

"  I  am  no  metaphysician,"  he  said,  and  Wingfold  ac- 
cepted the  dismissal  of  the  subject. 

Little  passed  between  the  two  men  over  their  wine  ; 
and  as  neither  of  them  cared  to  drink  more  than  a  cou- 
ple of  glasses,  they  soon  rejoined  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room. 

Mrs.  Ramshorn  was  taking  her  usual  forty  winks  in 
her  arm-chair,  and  their  entrance  did  not  disturb  her. 
Helen  was  turning  over  some  music. 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  song  for  you,  George,"  she  said. 
'•  I  want  Mr.  Wingfold  to  hear  you  sing,  lest  he  should 
take  you  for  a  man  of  stone  and  lime." 

"  Nevermind  looking,"  returned  her  cousin.  "  I  will 
sing  one  you  have  never  heard." 

And  seating  himself  at  the  piano,  he  sang  the  follow- 
ing verses.  They  were  his  own,  a  fact  he  would  proba- 
bly have  allowed  to  creep  out  had  they  met  with  more 
sympathy.     His  voice  was  a  fine  bass  one,  full  of  tone. 


THEIR   TALK. 


"  Each  man  has  his  lampful,  his  lampful  of  oil  ; 
He  may  dull  its  glimmer  with  sorrow  and  toil ; 
He  may  leave  it  unlit,  and  let  it  dry, 
Or  wave  it  aloft,  and  hold  it  high  ; 
For  mine,  it  shall  burn  with  a  fearless  flame 
In  the  front  of  the  darkness  that  has  no  name. 

"  Sunshine  and  Wind  ! — are  ye  there  ?     Ho  !  ho  ! 
Are  ye  comrades  or  lords,  as  ye  shine  and  blow? 
I  care  not,  I  !     I  will  lift  my  head 
Till  ye  shine  and  blow  on  my  grassy  bed. 
See,  brother  Sun,  I  am  shining  too  ! 
Wind,  I  am  living  as  well  as  you  ! 

"  Though  the  sun  go  out  like  a  vagrant  spark, 
And  his  daughter  planets  are  left  in  the  dark, 
I  care  not,  I  !     For  why  should  I  care  ? 
I  shall  be  hurtless,  nor  here  nor  there. 
Sun  and  Wind,  let  us  shine  and  shout, 
For  the  day  draws  nigh  when  we  all  go  out  !" 

"  I  don't  like  the  song,"  said  Helen,  wrinkling  her 
brows  a  little.     "  It  sounds — well,  heathenish." 

She  would,  I  fear,  have  said  nothing  of  the  sort,  being 
used  to  that  kind  of  sound  from  her  cousin,  had  not  a 
clergyman  been  present.  Yet  she  said  it  from  no  hy- 
pocrisy, but  simple  regard  for  his  professional  feelings. 

"  I  sang  it  for  Mr.  Wingfold,"  returned  Bascombe. 
"  It  would  have  been  a  song  after  Horace's  own  heart." 

"  Don't  you  think,"  rejoined  the  curate,  "  the  defiant 
tone  of  your  song  would  have  been  strange  to  him  ?  I 
confess  that  what  I  find  chiefly  attractive  in  Horace  is  his 
sad  submission  to  the  inevitable." 

"  Sad  ?"  echoed  Bascombe. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 


26  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  No.  He  makes  the  best  of  it,  and  as  merrily  as 
he  can." 

"  As  he  can,  I  grant  you,"  said  Wingfold. 

Here  Mrs.  Ramshorn  woke,  and  the  subject  w^v. 
dropped,  leaving  Mr.  Wingfold  in  some  perplexity  as  to 
this  young  man  and  his  talk,  and  what  the  phenomenon 
signified.  Was  heathenism  after  all  secretly  cherished, 
and  about  to  become  fashionable  in  English  society } 
He  saw  little  of  its  phases,  and  for  what  he  knew  it 
might  be  so. 

Helen  sat  down  at  the  piano.  Her  time  was  perfect, 
and  she  never  blundered  a  note.  She  played  well  and 
woodenly,  and  had  for  her  reward  a  certain  wooden 
satisfaction  in  her  own  performance.  The  music  she 
chose  was  good  of  its  kind,  but  had  more  to  do  with  the 
instrument  than  the  feelings,  and  was  more  dependent 
upon  execution  than  expression.  Bascombe  yawned 
behind  his  handkerchief,  and  Wingfold  gazed  at  the 
profile  of  the  player,  wondering  how,  with  such  fine 
features  and  complexion,  with  such  a  fine-shaped  and 
well-set  head,  her  face  should  be  so  far  short  of  inter- 
esting.   It  seemed  a  face  that  had  no  story. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A    STAGGERING    QUESTION. 

T  was  time  the  curate  should  take  his  leave. 
Bascombe  would  go  out  with  him  and  have 
his  last  cigar.  The  wind  had  fallen,  and  the 
moon  was  shining.  A  vague  sense  of  con- 
trast came  over  Wingfold,  and  as  he  stepped  on 
the  pavement  from  the  threshold  of  the  high  gates 
of  wrought  iron,  he  turned  involuntarily  and  looked 
back  at  the  house.  It  was  of  red  brick,  and  flat-faced,  in 
the  style  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  so  that  the  light  could 
do  nothing  with  it  in  the  way  of  shadow,  and  dwelt  only 
on  the  dignity  of  its  unpretentiousness.  But  aloft  over 
its  ridge  the  moon  floated  in  the  softest,  loveliest  blue, 
with  just  a  cloud  here  and  there  to  show  how  blue  it 
was,  and  a  sparkle  where  its  bluenesstook  fire  in  a  star. 
It  was  autumn,  almost  winter,  below,  and  the  creepers 
that  clung  to  the  house  waved  in  the  now  gentle  wind 
like  the  straggling  tresses  of  old  age  ;  but  above  was  a 
sky  that  might  have  overhung  the  last  melting  of  spring 
into  summer.  At  the  end  of  the  street  rose  the  great 
square  tower  of  the  church,  seeming  larger  than  in  the 


28  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

daylight.  There  was  something  in  it  all  that  made  the 
curate  feel  there  ought  to  be  more — as  if  the  night 
knew  something  he  did  not ;  and  he  yielded  himself  to 
its  invasion. 

His  companion  having  carefully  lighted  his  cigar  all 
round  its  extreme  periphery,  took  it  from  his  mouth, 
regarded  its  glowing  end  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction, 
and  burst  into  a  laugh.  It  was  r.ot  a  scornful  laugh, 
neither  was  it  a  merry  or  a  humorous  laugh :  it  was 
one  of  satisfaction  and  amusement. 

"  Let  me  have  a  share  in  the  fun,"  said  the  curate. 

"You  have  it,"  said  his  companion — rudely,  indeed, 
but  not  quite  offensively,  and  put  his  cigar  in  his  mouth 
again. 

Wingfold  was  not  one  to  take  umbrage  easily.  He 
was  not  important  enough  in  his  own  eyes  for  that,  but 
he  did  not  choose  to  go  farther. 

"That's  a  fine  old  church,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
dark  mass  invading  the  blue — so  solid,  yet  so  clear  in 
outline. 

"  I  am  glad  the  mason-work  is  to  your  mind,"  return- 
ed Bascombe,  almost  compassionately.  "  It  must  be 
some  satisfaction,  perhaps  consolation,  to  you." 

Before  he  had  thus  concluded  the  sentence  a  little 
scorn  had  crept  into  his  tone. 

"  You  make  some  allusion  which  I  do  not  quite  appre- 
hend," said  the  curate. 

"  Now,  I  am  going  to  be  honest  with  you,"  said  Bas- 
combe abruptly,  and  stopping,  he  turned  square  towards 
his  companion,    and    took    the    full-flavored    Havana 


A    STAGGERING   QUESTION.  29 

from  his  lips.  "  I  like  you,"  he  went  on,  "  for  you  seem 
reasonable  ;  and  besides,  a  man  ought  to  speak  out  what 
he  thinks.  So  here  goes  !  Tell  me  honestly — do  you 
believe  one  word  of  all  that  ?" 

And  he  in  his  turn  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the 
great  tower. 

The  curate  was  taken  by  surprise,  and  made  no  an- 
swer :  it  was  as  if  he  had  received  a  sudden  blow  in  the 
face.  Recovering  himself  presently,  however,  he 
sought  room  to  pass  the  question  without  direct  en- 
counter. 

"  How  came  the  thing  there?"  he  said,  once  more 
indicating  the  church-tower. 

"  By  faith,  no  doubt,"  answered  Bascombe,  laughing, 
" — but  not  your  faith  ;  no,  nor  the  faith  of  any  of  the 
last  few  generations." 

"  There  are  more  churches  built  now,  ten  times  over, 
than  in  any  former  period  of  our  history." 

"  True  ;  but  of  what  sort  ?  All  imitation — never  an 
original  amongst  them  all !" 

"  If  they  had  found  out  the  right  way,  why  change 
it  ?" 

"  Good  !  But  it  is  rather  ominous  for  the  claim  of  a 
divine  origin  to  your  religion  that  it  should  be  the  only 
thing  that  in  these  days  takes  the  crab's  move — back- 
wards. You  are  indebted  to  your  forefathers  for  your 
would-be  belief,  as  well  as  for  their  genuine  churches. 
You  hardly  know  what  your  belief  is.  There  is  my  aunt 
— as  good  a  specimen  as  I  know  of  what  you  call  a 
Christian  ! — so  accustomed  is  she  to  think  and  speak 


30  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


too  after  the  forms  of  what  you  heard  my  cousin  call 
heathenism,  that  she  never  would  have  discovered,  had 
she  been  as  wide  awake  as  she  was  sound  asleep,  that 
the  song  I  sung  was  anything  but  a  good  Christian 
ballad." 
"  Pardon  me  ;  I  think  you  are  wrong  there." 
"  What  !  did  you  never  remark  how  these  Christian 
people,  who  profess  to  believe  that  their  great  man  has 
conquered  death,  and  all  that  rubbish — did  you  never 
observe  the  way  they  look  if  the  least  allusion  is  made 
to  death,  or  the  eternity  they  say  they  expect  beyond 
it  ?  Do  they  not  stare  as  if  you  had  committed  a  breach 
of  manners  ?  Religion  itself  the  same  way  :  as  much  as 
you  like  about  the  church,  but  don't  mention  Christ ! 
At  the  same  time,  to  do  them  justice,  it  is  only  of  death 
in  the  abstract  th  ey  decline  to  hear  ;  they  will  listen  to  the 
news  of  the  death  of  a  great  and  good  man  without  any 
such  emotion.  Look  at  the  poetry  of  death — I  mean  the 
way  Christian  poets  write  of  it  !  A  dreamless  sleep  they 
call  it — the  bourne  from  whence,  etc. — an  endless  sepa- 
ration— the  night  that  knows  no  morning — the  sleep 
that  knows  no  waking.  "  She  is  gone  forever  !"  cries 
the  mother  over  her  daughter.  And  that  is  why  such 
things  are  not  to  be  mentioned,  because  in  their  hearts 
they  have  no  hope,  and  in  their  minds  no  courage  to 
face  the  facts  of  existence.  We  haven't  the  pluck  of 
the  old  fellows,  who,  that  they  might  look  Death  himself 
in  the  face  without  dismay,  accustomed  themselves, 
even  at  their  banquets,  to  the  sight  of  his  most  loath- 
some handiwork,  his  most  significant  symbol— and  en- 


A   STAGGERING  QUESTION.  3 1 


joyed  their  wine  the  better  for  it  !— your  friend  Horace, 
for  instance." 

"  But  your  aunt  now  would  never  consent  to  such  an 
interpretation  of  her  opinions.  Nor  do  I  allow  that  it 
is  fair." 

"  My  dear  sir,  if  there  is  one  thing  I  pride  myself 
upon,  it  is  fair  play,  and  I  grant  you  at  once  she  would 
not.  But  I  am  speaking,  not  of  creeds,  but  of  beliefs. 
And  I  assert  that  the  forms  of  common  Christian  speech 
regarding  death  come  nearer  those  of  Horace  than  your 
saint,  the  old  Jew,  Saul  of  Tarsus." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Wingfold  that  people  generally 
speak  from  the  surfaces,  not  the  depths,  of  their  minds, 
even  when  those  depths  are  moved  ;  nor  yet  that  possi- 
bly Mrs.  Ramshorn-was  not  the  best  type  of  a  Christian, 
even  in  his  soft-walking  congregation.  In  fact,  nothing 
came  into  his  mind  with  which  to  meet  what  Bascombe 
said— the  real  force  whereof  he  could  not  help  feeling — 
and  he  answered  nothing.  His  companion  followed  his 
apparent  yielding  with  fresh  pressure. 

"  In  truth,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  believe  th3.t you  believe 
more  than  an  atom  here  and  there  of  what  you  profess. 
I  am  confident  you  have  more  good  sense  by  a  great 
deal." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  find  that  you  place  good  sense  above 
good  faith,  Mr.  Bascombe  ;  but  I  am  obliged  by  your 
good  opinion,  which,  as  I  read  it,  amounts  to  this — that 
I  am  one  of  the  greatest  humbugs  you  have  the  misfor- 
tune to  be  acquainted  with." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     No,  no  ;  I  don't  say  that.     I  know  so 


32  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

well  how  to  make  allowance  for  the  prejudices  a  man 
has  inherited  from  foolish  ancestors,  and  which  have 
been  instilled  into  him,  as  well,  with  his  earliest  nour- 
ishment, both  bodily  and  mentally.  But  —come  now — I 
do  love  open  dealing — I  am  myself  open  as  the  day — did 
you  not  take  to  the  church  as  a  profession,  in  which  you 
might  eat  a  piece  of  bread — as  somebody  says  in  your 
own  blessed  Bible — dry  enough  bread  it  may  be,  for  the 
old  lady  is  not  over-generous  to  her  younger  children — 
still  a  gentlemanly  sort  of  livelihood  ?" 

Wingfold  held  his  peace.  It  was  incontestably  with 
such  a  view  that  he  had  signed  the  articles  and  sought 
holy  orders, — and  that  without  a  single  question  as  to 
truth  or  reality  in  either  act. 

"  Your  silence  is  honesty,  Mr.  Wingfold,  and  I  honor 
you  for  it,"  said  Bascombe.  "  It  is  an  easy  thing  for  a 
man  in  another  profession  to  speak  his  mind,  but  silence 
such  as  yours,  casting  a  shadow  backward  over  your 
past,  requires  courage  :  I  honor  you,  sir." 

As  he  spoke,  he  laid  his  hand  on  Wingfold's  shoulder 
with  the  grasp  of  an  athlete. 

"Can  the  sherry  have  any  thing  to  do  with  it.-*" 
thought  the  curate.  The  fellow  was,  or  seemed  to  be, 
years  younger  than  himself  !  It  was  an  assurance  un- 
imaginable — yet  there  it  stood — six  feet  of  it  good  !  He 
glanced  at  the  church-tower.  It  had  not  vanished  in 
mist !  It  still  made  its  own  strong,  clear  mark  on  the 
eternal  blue  ! 

"  I  must  not  allow  you  to  mistake  my  silence,  Mr. 
Bascombe,"  he  answered  the  same  moment.     "  It  is  not 


A   STAGGERING   QUESTION.  33 

easy  to  reply  to  such  demands  all  at  once.  It  is  not 
easy  to  say  in  times  like  these,  and  at  a  moment's  notice, 
what  or  how  much  a  man  believes.  But  whatever  my 
answer  might  be  had  I  time  to  consider  it,  my  silence 
must  at  least  not  be  interpreted  to  mean  that  I  do  not  be- 
lieve as  my  profession  indicates.  That,  at  all  events, 
would  be  untrue." 

"  Then  I  am  to  understand,  Mr.  Wingfold,  that  you 
neither  believe  nor  disbelieve  the  tenets  of  the  church 
whose  bread  you  eat }"  said  Bascombe,  with  the  air  of  a 
reprover  of  sin. 

"  I  decline  to  place  myself  between  the  horns  of  any 
such  dilemma,"  returned  Wingfold,  who  was  now  more 
than  a  little  annoyed  at  his  persistency  in  forcing  his 
way  within  the  precincts  of  another's  personality. 

"  It  is  but  one  more  proof — more  than  was  necessary 
— to  convince  me  that  the  whole  system  is  a  lie — a  lie  of 
the  worst  sort,  seeing  it  may  prevail  even  to  the  self- 
deception  of  a  man  otherwise  remarkable  for  honesty 
and  directness.     Good-night,  Mr.  Wingfold." 

With  lifted  hats,  but  no  hand-shaking,  the  men  parted. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  CURATE  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD. 

ASCOMBE  was  chagrined  to  find  that  the  per- 
suasive eloquence  with  which  he  hoped  soon 
to  play  upon  the  convictions  of  jurymen  at 
his  own  sweet  will  had  not  hegotten  even 
communicativeness,  not  to  say  confidence,  in  the 
mind  of  a  parson  who  knew  himself  fooled,  and  partly 
that  it  gave  him  cause  to  douht  how  far  it  might 
be  safe  to  urge  his  attack  in  another  and  to  him  more 
important  quarter.  He  had  a  passion  for  convincing 
people,  this  Hercules  of  the  new  world.  He  sauntered 
slowly  back  to  his  aunt's,  husbanding  his  cigar  a  little, 
and  looking  up  at  the  moon  now  and  then, — not  to  ad- 
mire the  marvel  of  her  shining,  but  to  think  yet  again 
what  a  fit  type  of  an  effete  superstition  she  was,  in  that 
she  retained  her  power  of  fascination  even  in  death. 

Wingfold  walked  slowly  away,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  gliding  from  under  his  footsteps.  It  was  only 
eleven  oclock,  but  this  the  oldest  part  of  the  town 
seemed  already  asleep.  They  had  not  met  a  single  per- 
son on  their  way,  and  hardly  seen  a  lighted  window. 


THE  CURATE  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD.        35 

But  he  felt  unwilling  to  go  home,  which  at  first  he  was 
fain  to  attribute  to  his  having  drunk  a  little  more  wine 
than  was  good  for  him,  whence  this  feverishne'^-':  and 
restlessness  so  strange  to  his  experience  '  In  the 
churchyard,  on  the  other  side  of  which  his  lodging  lay, 
he  turned  aside  from  the  flagged  path  and  sat  down 
upon  a  gravestone,  where  he  was  hardly  seated  ere  he 
began  to  discover  that  it  was  something  else  than  the 
wine  which  had  made  him  feel  so  uncomfortable.  What 
an  objectionable  young  fellow  that  Bascombe  was  ! — pre- 
suming and  arrogant  to  a  degree  rare,  he  hoped,  even  in 
a  profession  for  which  insolence  was  a  qualification. 
What  rendered  it  worse  was  that  his  good-nature — and 
indeed  every  one  of  his  gilts,  which  were  all  of  the  po- 
pular order — was  subservient  to  an  assumption  not  only 
self-satisfied  but  obtrusive  !  And  yet — and  yet — the  ob- 
jectionable character  of  his  self-constituted  judge  being 
clear  as  the  moon  to  the  mind  of  the  curate,  was 
there  not  something  in  what  he  had  said  ?  This  much 
remained  undeniable  at  least,  that  when  the  very  exist- 
ence of  the  church  was  denounced  as  a  humbug  in  the 
hearing  of  one  who  ate  her  bread,  and  was  her  pledged 
servant,  his  very  honesty  had  kept  that  man  from 
speaking  a  word  in  her  behalf  !  Something  must  be 
wrong  somewhere  :  was  it  in  him  or  in  the  church  ?  In 
him  assuredly,  whether  in  her  or  not.  For  had  he  not 
been  unable  to  utter  the  simple  assertion  that  he  did 
believe  the  things  which,  as  the  mouth-piece  of  the 
church,  he  had  been  speaking  in  the  name  of  the  truth 
every  Sunday — would  again  speak  the  day  after  to-mor- 


36  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

row  ?  And  now  the  point  was — ze/Ziy  could  he  not  say  he 
believed  them  ?  He  had  never  consciously  questioned 
them  ;  he  did  not  question  them  now  ;  and  yet,  when  a 
forward,  overbearing  young  infidel  of  a  lawyer  put  it  to 
him— plump — as  if  he  were  in  the  witness-box,  or  rather 
indeed  in  the  dock — ^did  he  believe  a  word  of  what  the 
church  had  set  him  to  teach  ? — a  strange  something — 
was  it  honesty  ? — if  so,  how  dishonest  had  he  not 
hitherto  been  ! — was  it  diffidence  ? — if  so,  how  presump- 
tuous his  position  in  that  church  ! — this  nondescript 
something  seemed  to  raise  a  "viewless  obstruction"  in 
his  throat,  and,  having  thus  rendered  him  the  first  mo- 
ment incapable  of  speaking  out  like  a  man,  had  taught 
him  the  next — had  it  ? — to  quibble — "  like  a  priest,"  the 
lawj'^er-fellow  would  doubtless  have  said  !  He  must  go 
home  and  study  Paley — or  perhaps  Butler's  Analogy — 
he  owed  the  church  something,  and  ought  to  be  able  to 
strike  a  blow  for  her.  Or  would  not  Leighton  be  bet- 
ter.^ Or  a  more  modern  writer — say  Neander,  or  Cole- 
ridge, or  perhaps  Dr.  Liddon  ?  There  were  thousands 
able  to  fit  him  out  for  the  silencing  of  such  foolish  men 
as  this  Bascombe  of  the  shirt-front ! 

Wingfold  found  himself  filled  with  contempt,  but  the 
next  moment  was  not  sure  whether  this  Bascombe  or 
one  Wingfold  were  the  more  legitimate  object  of  it. 
One  thing  was  undeniable — his  friends  ^aa  put  him  into 
the  priest's  office,  and  he  had  yielded  to  go  that  he 
might  eat  a  piece  of  bread.  He  had  no  love  for  it 
except  by  fits,  when  the  beauty  of  an  anthem,  or  the 
composition  of  a  collect,  awoke  in  him  a  taint  consent- 


THE  CURATE  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD.        3/ 

ing  admiration  or  a  weak  responsive  sympathy.  Did 
he  not,  indeed,  sometimes  despise  himself,  and  that 
pretty  heartily,  for  earning  his  bread  by  work  which  any 
pious  old  woman  could  do  better  than  he  ?  True,  he 
attended  to  his  duties  ;  not  merely  "  did  church,"  but 
his  endeavor  also  that  all  things  should  be  done  de- 
cently and  in  order.  All  the  same  it  remained  a  fact 
that  if  Barrister  Bascombe  were  to  stand  up  and  assert 
in  full  congregation — as  no  doubt  he  was  perfectly  pre- 
pared to  do — that  there  was  no  God  anywhere  in  the 
universe,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Wingfold  could  not,  on  the 
church's  part,  prove  to  anybody  that  there  was  ; — dared 
not,  indeed,  so  certain  would  he  be  of  discomfiture,  ad- 
vance a  single  argument  on  his  side  of  the  question. 
Was  it  even  his  side  of  the  question  }  Could  he  say 
he  believed  there  was  a  God }  Or  was  not  this 
all  he  knew — that  there  was  a  Church  of  England, 
which  paid  him  for  reading  public  prayers  to  a  God  in 
whom  the  congregation — and  himself — were  supposed 
by  some  to  believe,  by  others,  Bascombe,  for  instance, 
not.^ 

These  reflections  were  not  pleasant,  especially  with 
Sunday  so  near.  For  what  if  there  were  hundreds,  yes 
thousands  of  books,  triumphantly  settling  every  ques- 
tion which  an  over-seething  and  ill-instructed  brain 
might  by  any  chance  suggest, — what  could  it  boot  ? — 
how  was  a  poor  finite  mortal,  with  much  the  ordinary 
faculty  and  capacity,  and  but  a  very  small  stock  already 
stored,  to  set  about  reading,  studying,  understanding, 


38  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

mastering,  appropriating  the  contents  of  those  thou- 
sands of  volumes  necessary  to  the  arming  of  him  who, 
without  pretending  himself  the  mighty  champion  to 
seek  the  dragon  in  his  den,  might  yet  hope  not  to  let 
the  loathly  worm  swallow  him,  armor  and  all,  at  one 
gulp  in  the  highway?  Add  to  this  that — thought  of  all 
most  dismayful ! — he  had  himself  to  convince  first,  the 
worst  dragon  of  all  to  kill,  for  bare  honesty's  sake,  in 
his  own  field ;  while,  all  the  time  he  was  arming  and 
fighting — like  the  waves  of  the  flowing  tide  in  a  sou'- 
wester, Sunday  came  in  upon  Sunday,  roaring  on  his 
fiat,  defenceless  shore,  Sunday  behind  Sunday  rose  tow- 
ering in  awful  perspective,  away  to  the  verge  of  an  infi- 
nite horizon — Sunday  after  Sunday  of  dishonesty  and 
sham — yes,  hypocrisy,  far  worse  than  any  idolatry.  To 
begin  now,  and  in  such  circumstances,  to  study  the  evi- 
dences of  Christianity,  were  about  as  reasonable  as  to 
send  a  man,  whose  children  were  crying  for  their  dinrer, 
of!  to  China  to  make  his  fortune  ! 

He  laughed  the  idea  to  scorn,  discovered  that  a  grave- 
stone in  a  November  midnight  was  a  cold  chair  for 
study,  rose,  stretched  himself  disconsolately,  almost  de- 
spairingly, looked  long  at  the  persistent  soHdity  of  the 
dark  church  and  the  waving  line  of  its  age-slackened 
ridge,  which,  like  a  mountain  range,  shot  up  suddenly 
in  the  tower  and  ceased — then  turning  away  left  the 
houses  of  the  dead  crowded  all  about  the  house  of  the 
resurrection.  At  the  farther  gate  he  turned  yet  again, 
and  gazed  another  moment  on  the  tower.    Towards  the 


THE  CURATE  IN  THE  CHURCHYARD.        39 

sky  it  towered,  and  led  his  gaze  upward.  There  still 
soared,  yet  rested,  the  same  quiet  night  with  its  delicate 
heaps  of  transparent  blue,  its  cool-glowing  moon,  its 
steely  stars,  and  its  something  he  did  not  understand. 
He  went  home  a  little  quieter  of  heart,  as  if  he  had 
heard  from  afar  something  sweet  and  strange. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   COUSINS, 

EORGE  BASCOMBE  was  a  peculiar  develop- 
ment of  the  present  century,  almost  of  the 
present  generation.  In  the  last  century,  be- 
yond a  doubt,  the  description  of  such  a 
man  would  have  been  incredible.  I  do  not  mean  that 
he  was  the  worse  or  the  better  for  that.  There  are 
types  both  of  good  and  of  evil  which  to  the  past  would 
have  been  incredible  because  unintelligible. 

It  is  very  hard  sometimes  for  a  tolerably  honest  man, 
as  we  have  just  seen  in  the  case  of  Wingfold,  to  say 
what  he  believes,  and  it  ought  to  be  yet  harder  to  say 
what  another  man  does  not  believe  ;  therefore  I  shall 
presume  no  further  concerning  Bascombein  this  respect 
than  to  say  that  the  thing  he  seemed  most  to  believe  was 
that  he  had  a  mission  to  destroy  the  beliefs  of  every 
body  else.  Whence  he  derived  this  mission  he  would 
not  have  thought  a  reasonable  question —would  have 
answered  that  if  any  man  knew  any  truth  unknown  to 
another,  understood  any  truth  better,  or  could  present 
it  more  clearly  than  another,  the  truth  itself  was  his 


THE   COUSINS.  41 


commission  of  apostleship.  And  his  stand  was  indubi- 
tably a  firm  one.  Only  there  was  the  question — whe- 
ther his  presumed  commission  was  verily  truth  or  no. 
It  must  be  allowed  that  a  good  deal  turns  upon  that. 

According  to  the  judgment  of  some  men  who  thought 
they  knew  him,  Bascombe  was  as  yet.  I  will  not  say  in- 
capable of  distinguishing,  but  careless  of  the  distinction 
between — not  a  fact  and  a  law,  perhaps,  but  a  law  and  a 
truth.  They  said  also  that  he  inveighed  against  the  be- 
liefs of  other  people,  without  having  ever  seen  more 
than  a  distorted  shadow  of  those  beliefs — some  of  them 
he  was  not  capable  of  seeing,  they  said — only  capable  of 
denying.  Now  while  he  would  have  been  perfectly  jus- 
tified, they  said,  in  asserting  that  he  saw  no  truth  in  the 
things  he  denied,  was  he  justifiable  in  concluding  that 
his  not  seeing  a  thing  was  a  proof  of  its  non-existence 
— any  thing  more,  in  fact,  than  a  presumption  against  its 
existence  ?  or  in  denouncing  every  man  who  said  he 
believed  this  or  that  which  Bascombe  did  not  believe, 
as  either  a  knave  or  a  fool  if  not  both  in  one  ?  He  would, 
they  said,  judge  any  body — a  Shakespeare,  a  Bacon, 
a  Milton,  without  a  moment's  hesitation  or  a  quiver  of 
reverence — judge  men  who  beside  him  were  as  the  liv- 
ing ocean  to  a  rose-diamDnd.  If  he  was  armed  in  hon- 
esty, the  rivets  were  of  self-satisfaction.  The  suit,  they 
allowed,  was  adamantine,  unpierceable. 

That  region  of  a  man's  nature  which  has  to  do  witl^ 
the  unknown  was  in  Bascombe  shut  off  by  a  wall  withr 
out  chink  or  cranny  ;  he  was  unaware  of  its  existence, 
He    had   come   out   of  the   darkness,   and   was  going 


42  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

back  into  the  darkness  ;  all  that  lay  between,  plain 
and  clear,  he  had  to  do  with — nothing  more.  He 
could  not  present  to  himself  the  idea  of  a  man  who 
found  it  impossible  to  live  without  some  dealings  with 
the  supernal.  To  him  a  man's  imagination  was  of  no 
higher  calling  than  to  amuse  him  with  its  vagaries.  He 
did  not  know,  apparently,  that  Imagination  had  been 
the  guide  to  all  the  physical  discoveries  which  he  wor- 
shipped, therefore  could  not  reason  that  perhaps  she 
might  be  able  to  carry  a  gilmmering  light  even  into  the 
forest  of  the  supersensible. 

How  far  he  was  original  in  the  views  he  propounded 
will,  to  those  who  understand  the  times  of  which  I 
write,  be  plain  enough.  The  lively  reception  of  another 
man's  doctrine,  especially  if  it  comes  over  water  or 
across  a  few  ages  of  semi-oblivion,  and  has  to  be 
gathered  with  occasional  help  from  a  dictionar}^  raises 
many  a  man,  in  his  own  esteem,  to  the  same  rank  with 
its  first  propounder  ;  after  which  he  will  propound  it  so 
heartily  himself  as  to  forget  the  difference,  and  love  it 
as  his  own  child. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  the  son  of  a  clergyman 
should  take  such  a  part  in  the  world's  affairs,  but  one 
who  observes  will  discover  that,  at  college  at  least,  the 
behavior  of  sons  of  clergymen  resembles  in  general  as 
little  as  that  of  any,  and  less  than  that  of  most,  the  be- 
havior enjoined  by  the  doctrines  their  fathers  have  to 
teach.  The  cause  of  this  is  matter  for  the  consideration 
of  those  fathers.  In  Bascombe's  case  it  must  be  men- 
tioned, also,  that  instead  of  taking  freedom  from  preju- 


THE   COUSINS.  43 


dice  as  a  portion  of  the  natural  accomplishment  of  a 
gentleman,  he  prided  himself  upon  it,  and  therefore 
would  often  go  dead  against  the  things  presumed  to  be 
held  by  the  cloth,  long  before  he  had  begun  to  take  his 
position  as  an  iconoclast. 

Lest  I  should,  however,  tire  my  reader  with  the  de- 
lineation of  a  character  not  of  the  most  interesting,  I 
shall,  for  the  present,  only  add  that  Bascombe  had  per- 
suaded himself,  and  without  much  difficulty,  that  he  was 
one  of  the  prophets  of  a  new  order  of  things.  At  Cam- 
bridge he  had  been  so  regarded  by  a  few  who  had  laud- 
ed him  as  a  mighty  foe  to  humbug — and  in  some  true 
measure  he  deserved  the  praise.  Since  then  he  had 
found  a  larger  circle,  and  had  even  radiated  of  his  light, 
such  as  it  was,  from  the  centres  of  London  editorial 
offices.  But  all  I  have  to  do  with  now  is  the  fact  that 
he  had  grown  desirous  to  add  his  cousin,  Helen  Lingard, 
to  the  number  of  those  who  believed  in  him,  and  over 
whom,  therefore,  he  exercised  a  prophet's  influence. 

No  doubt  it  added  much  to  the  attractiveness  of  the 
intellectual  game  that  the  hunt  was  on  the  home 
grounds  of  such  a  proprietress  as  Helen — a  handsome, 
a  gifted,  and,  above  all,  a  lad3'-like  young  woman.  To 
do  Bascombe  justice,  the  fact  that  she  was  an  heiress 
also  had  very  little  weight  in  the  matter.  If  he  had 
ever  had  any  thought  of  marrying  her,  that  thought  was 
not  consciously  present  to  him  when  first  he  became 
aware  of  his  wish  to  convert  her  to  his  views  of  life. 
But  although  he  was  not  in  love  with  her,  he  admired 


44  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

her,  and  believed  he  saw  in  her  one  that  resembled 
himself. 

As  to  Helen,  although  she  was  no  more  conscious  of 
cause  of  self-dissatisfaction  than  her  cousin,  she  was 
not  therefore  positively  self-satisfied  like  him.  For 
that  her  mind  was  not  active  enough. 

If  it  seem,  as  it  may,  to  some  of  my  readers,  difficult 
to  believe  that  she  should  have  come  to  her  years  with- 
out encountering  any  questions,  giving  life  to  any  aspi- 
rations, or  even  forming  any  opinions  that  could  rightly 
be  called  her  own,  I  would  remind  them  that  she  had  al- 
ways had  good  health,  and  that  her  intellectual  faculties 
had  been  kept  in  full  and  healthy  exercise,  nor  had  once 
afforded  the  suspicion  of  a  tendency  towards  artistic  ut- 
terance in  any  direction.  She  was  no  mere  dabbler  in 
any  thing  :  in  music,  for  instance,  she  had  studied  tho- 
rough bass,  and  studied  it  well  ;  yet  her  playing  was 
such  as  I  have  already  described  it.  She  understood 
perspective,  and  could  copy  an  etching  in  pen  and  ink 
to  a  hair's  breadth,  yet  her  drawing  was  hard  and  me- 
chanical. She  was  pretty  much  at  home  in  Euclid,  and 
thoroughly  enjoyed  a  geometric  relation,  but  had  never 
yet  shown  her  English  master  the  slightest  pleasure  in  an 
analogy,  or  the  smallest  sympathy  with  any  poetry 
higher  than  such  as  very  properly  delights  schoolboys. 
Ten  thousand  things  she  knew  without  wondering  at 
one  of  them.  Any  attempt  to  rouse  her  admiration 
she  invariably  received  with  quiet  intelligence  but  no 
response.  Yet  her  drawing-master  was  convinced  there 
lay  a  large  soul  asleep  somewhere  below  the  calm  gray 


THE   COUSINS.  45 


morning  of  that  wide-awake  yet  reposeful  intelligence. 
As  far  as  she  knew — only  she  had  never  thought  any 
thing  about  it — she  was  in  harmony  with  creation  ani- 
mate and  inanimate,  and  for  what  might  or  might 
not  be  above  creation,  or  at  the  back,  or  the  heart,  or 
the  mere  root  of  it,  how  could  she  think  about  a  some- 
thing the  idea  of  which  had  never  yet  been  presented  to 
her  by  love  or  philosophy  or  even  curiosity  ?  As  for 
any  influence  from  the  public  offices  of  religion,  a  con- 
tented soul  may  glide  through  them  all  for  a  long  life, 
unstruck  to  the  last,  buoyant  and  evasive  as  a  bee 
amongst  hailstones.  And  now  her  cousin,  unsolicited, 
was  about  to  assume,  if  she  should  permit  him,  the  un- 
spiritual  direction  of  her  being,  so  that  she  need  never 
be  troubled  from  the  quarter  of  the  unknown. 

Mrs.  Ramshorn's  house  had  formerly  been  the  manor- 
house,  and,  although  it  now  stood  in  an  old  street,  with 
only  a  few  yards  of  ground  between  it  and  the  road,  it 
had  a  large  and  ancient  garden  behind  it.  A  large  gar- 
den of  any  sort  is  valuable,  but  an  ancient  garden  is  in- 
valuable, and  this  one  had  retained  a  very  antique  love- 
liness. The  quaint  memorials  of  its  history  lived  on 
into  the  new,  changed,  unsympathetic  time,  and  stood 
there,  aged,  modest,  and  unabashed.  Yet  not  one 
of  the  family  had  ever  cared  for  it  on  the  ground  of  its 
old-fashionedness  ;  its  preservation  was  owing  merely 
to  the  fact  that  their  gardener  was  blessed  with  a  whole- 
some stupidity  rendering  him  incapable  of  unlearning 
what  his  father,  who  had  been  gardener  there  before 
him,  had  had  marvellous  difficulty   in   teaching   him. 


46  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

We  do  not  half  appreciate  the  benefits  to  the  race  that 
spring  from  honest  dulness.  The  clever  people  are  the 
ruin  of  every  thing. 

Into  this  garden  Bascombe  walked  the  next  morning, 
after  breakfast,  and  Helen,  who,  next  to  the  smell  of  a 
fir-wood  fire,  honestly  liked  the  odor  of  a  good  cigar, 
spying  him  from  her  balcony,  which  was  the  roof  of  the 
veranda,  where  she  was  trimming  the  few  remaining 
chrysanthemums  that  stood  outside  the  window  of  her 
room,  ran  down  the  little  wooden  stair  that  led  from  it 
to  the  garden,  and  joined  him.  Nothing  could  just  at 
present  have  been  more  to  his  mind. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


THE   GARDEN. 


AKE  a  cigar,  Helen  ?"  said  George. 

"  No,  thank   you,"   answered    Helen;    "I 
like  it  diluted." 

"  I  don't  see  why  ladies  should  not  have 
things  strong  as  well  as  men." 

"  Not  if  they  don't  want  them.  You  can't  enjoy 
every  thing — I  mean,  one  can't  have  the  strong  and  the 
delicate  both  at  once.  I  don't  believe  a  smoker  can 
have  the  same  pleasure  in  smelling  a  rose  that  I  have." 

"  Isn't  it  a  pity  we  never  can  compare  sensations  }" 

"  I  don't  think  it  matters  much  :  every  one  would 
have  to  keep  to  his  own  after  all." 

"  That's  good,  Helen  !  If  ever  man  try  to  humbug 
you,  he  will  find  he  has  lost  his  stirrups.  If  only  there 
were  enough  like  you  left  in  this  miserable  old  hulk  of 
a  creation  !" 

It  was  an  odd  thing  that  when  in  the  humor  of  find- 
ing fault,  Bascombe  would  not  unfrequently  speak  of 
the  cosmos  as  a  creation.  He  was  himself  unaware  of 
the  curious  fact. 


48  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  standing  quarrel  with  the  crea- 
tion, George  !  Yet  one  might  think  you  had  as  little 
ground  as  most  people  to  complain  of  your  portion  in 
it,"  said  Helen. 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  don't  complain  for  myself.  I 
don't  pretend  to  think  I  am  specially  ill  used.  But  I  am 
not  every  body.  And  then  there's  such  a  lot  of  born 
fools  in  it  !" 

'•  If  they  are  born  fools  they  can't  help  it." 
"  That  may  be  ;  only  it  makes  it  none  the  pleasanter 
for  other  people  ;  but,  unfortunately,  they  are  not  the 
only  or  the  worst  sort  of  fools.  For  one  born  fool 
there  are  a  thousand  wilful  ones.  For  one  man  that 
will  honestly  face  an  honest  argument,  there  are  ten 
thousand  that  will  dishonestly  shirk  it.  There's  that 
curate-fellow  now — Wingfold  I  think  aunt  called  him — 
look  at  him  now  !" 

"  I  can't  see  much  in  him  to  rouse  indignation,"  said 
Helen.     "  He  seems  a  very  inoffensive  man." 

"  I  don't  call  it  inoffensive  when  a  man  sells  himself 
to  the  keeping  up  of  a  system  that — " 

Here  Bascombe  checked  himself,  remembering  that  a 
sudden  attack  upon  what  was  at  least,  the  more  was  the 
pity,  a  time-honored  system  might  rouse  a  woman's 
prejudices  ;  and  as  Helen  had  already  listened  to  a  large 
amount  of  undermining  remark  without  perceiving  the 
direction  of  his  tunnels,  he  resolved,  before  venturing 
an  open  assault,  to  make  sure  that  those  prejudices 
stood,  lightly  borne,  over  an  abyss  of  seething  objec- 
tion.    He  had  had  his  experiences  as  the  prophet-pio- 


THE   GARDEN.  49 


neer  of  glad  tidings  to  the  nations,  and  had  before  now, 
although  such  weakness  he  could  not  anticipate  in 
Helen,  seen  one  whom  he  considered  a  most  promising 
pupil  turn  suddenly  away  in  a  storm  of  terror  and  dis- 
gust. 

"  What  a  folly  is  it  now,"  he  instantly  resumed,  leaving 
the  general  and  attacking  a  particular,  "  to  think  to  make 
people  good  by  promises  and  threats — promises  of  a 
heaven  that  would  bore  the  dullest  among  them  to 
death,  and  threats  of  a  hell  the  very  idea  of  which,  if 
only  half  conceived,  would  be  enough  to  paralyze  every 
nerve  of  healthy  action  in  the  human  system  !" 

"  All  nations  have  believed  in  a  future  state,  either  of 
reward  or  punishment,"  objected  Helen. 

"  Mere  Brocken-spectres  of  their  own  approbation  or 
disapprobation  of  themselves.  And  whither  has  it 
brought  the  race  ?" 

"  What  then  would  you  substitute  for  it,  George  ?" 

"  Why  substitute  anything?  Ought  not  men  to  be 
good  to  one  another  because  they  are  made  up  of  ones 
and  others  ?  Do  you  or  I  need  threats  and  promises  to 
make  us  kind  ?  And  what  right  have  we  to  judge  others 
worse  than  ourselves.^  Mutual  compassion,"  he  went 
on,  blowing  out  a  mouthful  of  smoke  and  then  swelling 
his  big  chest  with  a  huge  lungsful  of  air,  "  might  be 
sufficient  to  teach  poor  ephemerals  kindness  and  con- 
sideration enough  to  last  their  time." 

"  But  how  would  you  bring  such  reflections  to  bear.''" 
asked  Helen,  pertinently. 

"  I  would  reason  thus  :  You  must  consider  that  you 


so  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

are  but  a  part  of  the  whole,  and  that  whatever  you  do 
to  hurt  the  whole,  or  injure  any  of  its  parts,  will  return 
upon  you  who  form  one  of  those  parts." 

"  How  would  that  influence  the  man  whose  favorite 
amusement  is  to  beat  his  wife  ?" 

"  Not  at  all,  I  grant  you.  But  that  man  is  what  he  is 
from  being  born  and  bred  under  a  false  and  brutal  system. 
Having  deluged  his  delicate  brain  with  the  poisonous 
fumes  of  adulterated  liquor,  and  so  roused  all  the  ter- 
rors of  a  phantom-haunted  imagination,  he  sees  hostile 
powers  above  watching  for  his  fall,  and  fiery  ruin  be- 
neath gaping  to  receive  him,  and  in  pure  despair  acts 
like  the  madman  the  priests  and  the  publicans  have 
made  him.  Helen,"  continued  Bascombe  with  solem- 
nity, regarding  her  fixedly,  "to  deliver  the  race  from 
the  horrors  of  such  falsehoods,  which  by  no  means  ope- 
rate only  on  the  vulgar  and  brutal,  for  to  how  many  of 
the  most  refined  and  delicate  of  human  beings  are  not 
their  lives  rendered  bitter  by  the  evil  suggestions  of 
lying  systems — I  care  not  what  they  are  called — philo- 
sophy, religion,  society,  I  care  not  ! — to  deliver  men,  I 
say,  from  such  ghouls  of  the  human  brain,  were  Indeed 
to  have  lived  !  and  in  the  consciousness  of  having  spent 
his  life  in  the  slaying  of  such  dragons,  a  man  may  well 
go  from  the  nameless  past  into  the  nameless  future  re- 
joicing, careless  even  if  his  poor  length  of  days  be 
shortened  by  his  labors  to  leave  blessing  behind  him, 
and,  full  of  courage  even  in  the  moment  of  final  dis- 
solution,   cast    her    mockery    back    into   the   face    of 


THE   GARDEN.  5I 


mocking    Life,  and   die    her  enemy  and  the  friend   of 
Death  !" 

George's  language  was  a  little  confused.  Perhaps  he 
mingled  his  ideas  a  little  for  Helen's  sake— or  rather 
for  obscurity's  sake.  Anyhow,  the  mournful  touch  in 
it  was  not  his  own,  but  taken  from  the  poems  of  certain 
persons  whose  opinions  resembled  his,  but  floated  on 
the  surface  of  mighty  and  sad  hearts.  Tall,  stately, 
comfortable  Helen  walked  composedly  by  his  side,  soft, 
ly  shared  his  cigar,  and  thought  what  a  splendid  plead- 
er he  would  make.  Perhaps  to  her  it  sounded  rather 
finer  than  it  was,  for  its  tone  of  unselfishness,  the  aroma 
of  self-devotion  that  floated  about  it,  pleased  and  attract- 
ed her.  Was  not  here  a  youth  in  the  prime  of  being  and 
the  dawn  of  success,  handsome,  and  smoking  the  oldest 
of  Havanas,  who,  so  far  from  being  enamoured  of  his 
own  existence,  was  anxious  and  careful  about  that  of 
less-favored  mortals,  for  whose  welfare  indeed  he  was 
willing  to  sacrifice  his  life  ? — nothing  less  could  be  what 
he  meant.  And  how  fine  he  looked  as  he  said  it,  with 
his  head  erect  and  his  nostrils  quivering  like  those  of 
a  horse  !     For  his  honesty,  that  was  self-evident ! 

Perhaps,  had  she  been  capable  of  looking  into  it,  the 
self-evident  honesty  might  have  resolved  itself  into  this 
— that  he  thoroughly  believed  in  himself  ;  that  he  meant 
what  he  said  ;  and  that  he  offered  her  nothing  he  did 
not  prize  and  cleave  to  as  his  own. 

To  one  who  had  read  Darwin,  and  had  chanced  to  see 
them  as  they  walked  in  their  steady,  stately  young  life 
among  the  ancient  cedars  and  clipped  yews  of  the  gar- 


52  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

den,  with  the  rags  and  tatters  of  the  ruined  summer 
hanging  over  and  around  them,  they  must  have  looked 
as  fine  an  instance  of  natural  selection  as  the  world  had 
to  show.  And  now  in  truth  for  the  first  time,  with  any 
shadow  of  purpose,  that  is,  did  the  thought  of  Helen  as 
a  wife  occur  to  Bascombe,  She  listened  so  well,  was  so 
roady  to  take  what  he  presented  to  her,  was  evidently 
so  willing  to  become  a  pupil,  that  he  began  to  say  to 
himself  that  here  was  the  very  woman  made — no,  not 
made,  that  implied  a  maker — but  for  him,  without  the 
made;  that  is,  if  ever  he  should  bring  himself  by  mar- 
riage to  limit  the  freedom  to  which  man,  the  crown  of 
the  world,  the  blossom  of  nature,  the  cauliflower  of  the 
spine,  was  predestined  or  doomed,  without  will  in  him- 
self or  beyond  himself,  from  an  eternity  of  unthinking 
matter,  ever  producing  what  was  better  than  itself,  in 
the  prolific  darkness  of  non-intent. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


THE    PARK. 


^hlT  the  bottom  of  Mrs.  Ramshorn's  garden  was 
a  deep  sunk  fence,  which  allowed  a  large 
meadow,  a  fragment  of  what  had  once 
been  the  manor-park,  to  belong,  so  far  as 
the  eye  was  concerned,  to  the  garden.  Nor  was 
this  all,  for  in  the  sunk  fence  was  a  door  with  a  little 
tunnel,  by  which  they  could  pass  at  once  from  the  gar- 
den to  the  meadow.  So,  the  day  being  wonderfully  fine, 
Bascombe  proposed  to  his  cousin  a  walk  in  the  park,  the 
close-paling  of  which,  with  a  small  door  in  it,  whereto 
Mrs.  Ramshorn  had  the  privilege  of  a  key,  was  visible 
on  the  other  side  of  the  meadow.  The  two  keys  had 
but  to  be  fetched  from  the  house,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
they  were  in  the  park.  The  turf  was  dry,  the  air  was 
still,  and  although  the  woods  were  very  silent,  and 
looked  mournfully  bare,  the  grass  drew  nearer  to  the 
roots  of  the  trees,  and  the  sunshine  filled  them  with 
streaks  of  gold,  blending  lovelily  with  the  bright  green 
of  the  moss  that  patched  the  older  stems.  Neither 
horses  nor  dogs  say  to  themselves,  I  suppose,  that  the 


54  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

sunshine  makes  them  glad,  yet  both  are  happier,  after 
the  rules  of  equine  and  canine  existence,  on  a  bright  day  : 
neither  Helen  nor  George  could  have  understood  a 
poem  of  Keats — not  to  say  Wordsworth — (I  do  not 
mean  they  would  not  have  fancied  they  did) — and  yet  the 
soul  of  nature  that  dwelt  in  these  common  shows  did  not 
altogether  fail  of  influence  upon  them. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  birds  do  with  themselves  all  the 
winter,"  said  Helen. 

"  Eat  berries,  and  make  the  best  of  it,"  answered 
George. 

"  I  mean  what  becomes  of  them  all.  We  see  so  few  of 
them." 

"  About  as  many  as  you  see  in  summer.     Because  you 
hear  them  you  fancy  you  see  them." 
'"  But  there  is  so  little  to  hide  them  in  winter." 

"  Little  is  wanted  to  hide  our  dusky  creatures." 

"  They  must  have  a  hard  time  of  it  in  frost  and  snow." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  returned  George.  "  They  enjoy 
life  on  the  whole,  I  believe.  It  aint  such  a  very  bad 
sort  of  a  world  as  some  people  would  have  it.  Nature 
is  cruel  enough  in  some  of  her  arrangements,  it  can't  be 
denied.  She  don't  scruple  to  carry  out  her  plans.  It  is 
nothing  to  her  that  for  the  life  of  one  great  monster  of 
a  high-priest  millions  upon  millions  of  submissive  little 
fishes  should  be  sacrificed;  and  then  if  any  body  come 
within  the  teeth  of  her  machinery,  don't  she  mangle 
him  finely — with  her  fevers  and  her  agues  and  her 
convulsions  and  consumptions  and  what  not  ?  But 
still,  barring  her  own  necessities,  and  the  consequences 


THE   PARK.  55 


of  man's  ignorance  and  foolhardiness,   she  is    on   the 
whole  rather  a  good-natured  old  woman,  and  scatters  a 
deal  of  tolerably  fair  enjoyment  around  her." 
I     "  One  wou/d  think  the  birds  must  be  happy  in  summer 
at  least,  to  hear  them  sing,"  corroborated  Helen. 

"  Yes,  or  to  see  them  stripping  a  hawthorn  bush  in 
winter — always  provided  the  cat  or  the  hawk  don't  get 
a  hold  of  them.  With  that  nature  does  not  trouble  her- 
self. Well,  it's  soon  over — with  all  of  us,  and  that's  a 
comfort.  If  men  would  only  get  rid  of  their  cats  and 
hawks — such  as  the  fancy,  for  instance,  that  all  their  suf- 
fering comes  of  the  will  of  a  malignant  power  !  That  is 
the  kind  of  thing  that  makes  the  misery  of  the  world  !" 

"  I  don't  quite  see — "  began  Helen. 

"  We  were  talking  about  the  birds  in  winter,"  inter- 
rupted George,  careful  not  to  swell  too  suddenly  any  of 
the  air-bags  with  which  he  would  fioat  Helen's  belief. 
He  knew  wisely,  and  he  knew  how,  to  leave  a  hint  to 
work  while  it  was  yet  not  half  understood.  By  the  time 
it  was  understood  it  would  have  grown  a  little  familiar: 
the  supposed  pup  when  it  turned  out  a  cub  would  not 
be  so  terrible  as  if  it  had  presented  itself  at  once  as 
leonate. 

And  so  they  wandered  across  the  park,  talking  easily. 

"They've  got  on  a  good  way  since  I  was  here  last," 
said  George,  as  they  came  in  sight  of  the  new  house 
the  new  earl  was  building.  "But  they  don't  seem  much 
in  a  hurry  with  it  either." 

"  Aunt  says  it  is  twenty  years  since  the  foundations 
were  laid  by  the  uncle  of  the  present  earl,"  said  Helen  ; 


$6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"and  then  for  some  reason  or  other  the  thing  was 
dropped." 

"  Was  there  no  house  on  the  place  before  ?" 

"  Oh  !  yes — not  much  of  a  house,  though." 

"And  they  pulled  it  down,  I  suppose." 

"  No  ;  it  stands  there  still." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Down  in  the  hollow  there — over  those  trees— about 
the  worst  place  they  could  have  built  in.  Surely  you 
have  seen  it  !     Poldie  and  I  used  to  run  all  over  it." 

"  No,  I  never  saw  it.     Was  it  empty  then  ?" 

"Yes,  or  almost.  I  can  remember  some  little  atten- 
tion paid  to  the  garden,  but  none  to  the  house.  It  is 
just  falling  slowly  to  pieces.     Would  you  like  to  see  it  ?" 

"  That  I  should,"  returned  Bascombe,  who  was  always 
ready  for  any  new  impression  on  his  sensorium,  and 
away  they  went  to  look  at  the  old  house  of  Glaston,  as  it 
was  called,  after  some  greatly  older  and  probably  forti- 
fied place. 

In  the  hollow  all  the  water  of  the  park  gathered  to  a 
lake  before  finding  its  way  to  the  river  Lythe.  This 
lake  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  old  garden,  and  the  house 
at  the  top  of  it.  The  garden  was  walled  on  the  two 
sides,  and  the  walls  ran  right  down  to  the  lake.  There 
were  wonderful  legends  current  among  the  children  of 
Glaston  concerning  that  lake,  its  depth,  and  the  crea- 
tures in  it ;  and  one  terrible  story,  which  had  been  made 
a  ballad  of,  about  a  lady  drowned  in  a  sack,  whose  ghost 
rgight  still  be  seen  when  the  moon  was  old,  haunting 
the  gardens  and  the  house.     Hence  it  came  that  none  of 


THE   PARK.  57 


them  went  near  it,  except  those  few  whose  appetites  for 
adventure  now  and  then  grew  keen  enough  to  prevent 
their  imaginations  from  rousing  more  fear  than  sup- 
plied the  proper  rehsh  of  danger.  The  house  itself 
even  those  few  never  dared  to  enter. 

Not  so  had  it  been  with  Helen  and  Leopold.  The  lat- 
ter had  imagination  enough  to  receive  every  thing  offer- 
ed, but  Helen  was  the  leader,  and  she  had  next  to  none. 
In  her  childhood  she  had  heard  the  tales  alluded  to 
from  her  nurses,  but  she  had  been  to  school  since,  and 
had  learned  not  to  believe  them  ;  and  certainly  she  was 
not  one  to  be  frightened  at  what  she  did  not  believe. 
So  when  Leopold  came  in  the  holidays,  the  place  was  one 
of  their  favored  haunts,  and  they  knew  every  cubic 
yard  in  the  house. 

"  Here,"  said  Helen  to  her  cousin,  as  she  opened  a  door 
in  a  little  closet,  and  showed  a  dusky  room  which  had 
no  window  but  a  small  one  high  up  in  the  wall  of  a  back 
staircase,  "here  is  one  room  into  which  I  never  could 
get  Poldie  without  the  greatest  trouble.  I  gave  it  up  at 
last,  he  always  trembled  so  till  he  got  out  again.  I  will 
show  you  such  a  curious  place  at  the  other  end  of  it." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  closet  similar  to  that  by  which  they 
had  entered,  and  directed  Bascombe  how  to  raise  a  trap 
which  filled  all  the  floor  of  it  so  that  it  did  not  show. 
Under  the  trap  was  a  sort  of  well,  big  enough  to  hold 
three  upon  emergency. 

"  If  only  they  could  contrive  to  breathe,"  said  George. 
"  It  looks  ugly.  If  it  had  but  a  brain  and  a  tongue, 
it  could  tell  tales." 


58  THOMAS   WINGPOLD;    CURATE. 


"  Come,"  said  Helen.  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  it  myself  now.  Letusget  into  the 
open  air  again." 

Ascending  from  the  hollow,  and  passing  through  a 
deep  belt  of  trees  that  surrounded  it,  they  came  again 
to  the  open  park,  and  by  and  by  reached  the  road  that 
led  from  the  lodge  to  the  newbuilding,  upon  which  they 
presently  encountered  a  strange  couple. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE    DWARFS. 

HE  moment  they  had  passed  them,  George 
turned  to  his  cousin  with  a  countenance 
which  bore  moral  indignation  mingled  with 
disgust.  The  healthy  instincts  of  the  ekct 
of  his  race  were  offended  by  the  sight  of  such  physical 
failures,  such  mockeries  of  humanity  as  those. 

The  woman  was  little  if  any  thing  over  four  feet  in 
height.  She  was  crooked,  had  a  high  shoulder,  and 
walked  like  a  crab,  one  leg  being  shorter  than  the  other. 
Her  companion  walked  quite  straight,  with  a  certain 
appearance  of  dignity  which  he  neither  assumed  nor 
could  have  avoided,  and  which  gave  his  gait  the  air  of  a 
march.  He  was  not  an  inch  taller  than  the  woman,  had 
broad  square  shoulders,  pigeon  breast,  and  invisible 
neck.  He  was  twice  her  age,  and  they  seemed  father 
and  daughter.  They  heard  his  breathing,  loud  with 
asthma,  as  they  went  by. 

"  Poor  things  !''  said  Helen,  with  cold  kindness. 

"  It  is  shameful  I"  said  George,  in  a  tone  of  righteous 


6o  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


anger.  "  Such  creatures  have  no  right  to  existence. 
The  horrid  manakin  !" 

"  But,  George  !"  said  Helen,  in  expostulation,  "  the 
poor  wretch  can't  help  his  deformity." 

"No  ;  but  what  right  had  he  to  marry  and  perpetuate 
such  odious  misery  ?" 

"  You  are  too  hasty  :  the  5^oung  woman  is  his  niece." 

"  She  ought  to  have  been  strangled  the  moment  she 
was  born — for  the  sake  of  humanity.  Monsters  ought 
not  to  hve.'' 

"  Unfortunately  they  have  all  got  mothers,"  said 
Helen,  and  something  in  her  face  made  him  fear  he 
had  gone  too  far. 

"  Don't  mistake  me,  dear  Helen,"  he  said.  "  I  would 
neither  starve  nor  drown  them  after  they  had  reached 
the  faculty  of  resenting  such  treatment — of  the  justice 
of  which,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  I  am  afraid  it  would  be 
hard  to  convince  them.  But  such  people  actually  mar- 
ry— I  have  known  cases — and  that  ought  to  bepnivided 
against  by  suitable  enactments  and  penalties." 

"  And  so,"  rejoined  Helen,"  because  they  are  unhappy 
alread3%  you  would  heap  unhappiness  upon  them  }" 

"  Now,  Helen,  you  must  not  be  unfair  to  me  any 
more  than  to  your  hunchbacks.  It  is  the  good  of  the 
many  I  seek,  and  surely  that  is  better  than  the  good  of 
the  few." 

♦•What  I  object  to  is  that  it  should  be  at  the  expense 
of  the  few— who  are  least  able  to  bear  it." 

"The  expense  is  trifling,"  said  Bascombe.  ''Grant 
that  it  would  be  better  for  society  that  no  such— or  ra- 


THE   DWARFS. 


Iher  put  it  this  wa}' :  grant  that  it  would  be  well  for 
each  individual  that  goes  to  make  up  society  that  he 
were  neither  deformed,  sickly,  nor  idiotic,  and  you  mean 
the  same  that  I  do.  A  given  space  of  territory  under 
given  conditions  will  always  maintain  a  certam  number 
of  human  beings  ;  therefore  such  Zf.  law  as  I  propose 
would  not  mean  that  the  number  drawing  the  breath  of 
heaven  should,  to  take  the  instance  before  us  in  illustra- 
tion, be  two  less,  but  that  a  certain  two  of  them  should 
not  be  as  he  or  she  who  passed  novv',  creatures  whose 
existence  is  a  burden  to  them,  but  such  as  you  and  I, 
Helen,  who  may  say  without  presumption  that  we  are 
no  disgrace  to  Nature's  handicraft." 

Helen  was  not  sensitive.  She  neither  blushed  nor 
cast  down  her  eyes.  But  his  tenets,  thus  expounded, 
had  nothing  very  repulsive  in  them  so  far  as  she  saw, 
and  she  made  no  further  objection  to  them. 

As  they  walked  up  the  garden  again,  through  the 
many  lingering  signs  of  a  more  stately  if  less  luxurious 
existence  than  that  of  their  generation,  she  was  calmly 
listening  to  a  lecture  on  the  ground  of  law,  namely,  the 
resignation  of  certain  personal  rights  for  the  securing 
of  other  and  more  important  ones  :  she  understood,  was 
mildly  interested,  and  entirely  satisfied. 

They  seated  themselves  in  the  summer-house — a  little 
wooden  room  under  the  down-sloping  boughs  of  a  huge 
cedar,  and  pursued  their  conversation — or  rather  Bas- 
combe  pursued  his  monologue.  A  lively  girl  would  in  all 
probability  have  been  bored  to  death  by  him,  but  Helen 
was  not  a  lively  girl,  and  was  not  bored  at  all.     Ere  they 


62  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


went  into  the  house  she  had  heard,  amongst  a  hundred 
other  things  of  wisdom,  his  views  concerning  crime  and 
punishment,  with  which,  good  and  bad,  true  and  false, 
I  shall  not  trouble  my  reader  except  in  regard  to  one 
point — that  of  the  obligation  to  punish.  Upon  this 
point  he  was  severe. 

No  person,  he  said,  ought  to  allow  any  weakness  of 
pity  to  prevent  him  from  bringing  to  punishment  the 
person  who  broke  the  laws  upon  which  the  well-being 
of  the  community  depended.  A  man  must  remember 
that  the  good  of  the  whole,  and  not  the  fate  of  the  indi- 
vidual, was  to  be  regarded. 

It  was  altogether  a  notable  sort  of  tete-a-tete  between 
two  such  perfect  specimens  of  the  race,  and  as  at  length 
they  entered  the  house,  they  professed  to  each  other  to 
have  much  enjoyed  their  walk. 

Holding  the  opinions  he  did,  Bascombe  was  in  one 
thing  inconsistent  :  he  went  to  "  divine  service"  on  the 
Sunday  with  his  aunt  and  cousin — not  to  humor  He- 
len's prejudices  but  those  of  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  who,  be- 
longing, as  I  have  said,  to  the  profession,  had  strong 
opinions  as  to  the  wickedness  of  not  going  to  church. 
It  was  of  no  use,  he  said  to  himself,  trying  to  upset  her 
ideas,  for  to  succeed  would  only  be  to  make  her  misera- 
ble, and  his  design  was  to  make  the  race  ha'ppy.  In  the 
grand  old  xlbbey,  therefore,  they  heard  together  morn- 
ing prayers,  the  Litany,  and  the  Communion,  all  in  one, 
after  a  weariful  and  lazy  modern  custom  not  yet  extinct, 
and  then  a  dull,  sensible  sermon,  short,  and  tolerably 
well  read,  on  the  duty  of  forgiveness  of  injuries. 


THE    DWARFS.  63 


I  dare  say  it  did  most  of  the  people  present  a  little 
good,  undefinable  as  the  faint  influences  of  starlight,  to 
sit  under  that  "  high  embowed  roof,"  within  that  vast 
artistic  isolation,  through  whose  mighty  limiting  the 
boundless  is  embodied,  and  we  learn  to  feel  the  awful 
infinitude  of  the  parent  space  out  of  which  it  is  scooped. 
I  dare  also  say  that  the  tones  of  the  mellow  old  organ 
spoke  to  something  in  many  of  the  listeners  that  lay 
deeper  far  than  the  plummet  of  their  self-knowledge  had 
ever  sounded.  I  think  also  that  the  prayers,  the  reading 
of  which,  in  respect  of  intelligence,  was  admirable,  were 
not  only  regarded  as  sacred  utterances,  but  felt  to  be 
soothing  influences  by  not  a  few  of  those  who  made  not 
the  slightest  effort  to  follow  them  with  their  hearts  ;  and 
I  trust  that  on  the  whole  their  church-going  tended 
rather  to  make  them  better  than  to  harden  them.  But 
as  to  the  main  point,  the  stirring  up  of  the  children  of 
the  Highest  to  lay  hold  of  the  skirts  of  their  Father's 
robe,  the  waking  of  the  individual  conscience  to  say  / 
iviil  arise,  and  the  strengthening  of  the  captive  Will  to 
break  its  bonds  and  stand  free  in  the  name  of  the  eter- 
nal creating  Freedom — for  nothing  of  that  was  there 
any  special  provision.  This  belonged,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  to  the  sermon,  in  which,  if  anywhere,  the  voice 
of  the  indwelling  Spirit  might  surely  be  heard — out  of 
J  his  holy  temple,  if  indeed  that  be  the  living  soul  of  man, 
as  St.  Paul  believed  ;  but  there  was  no  sign  that  the 
preacher  regarded  his  office  as  having  any  such  end,  al- 
though in  his  sermon  lingered  the  rudimentary  tokens 


64  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

that  such  must  have  been  the  original  intent  of  pulpit- 
utterance. 

On  the  way  home,  Bascombe  made  some  objections 
to  the  discourse,  partly  to  show  his  aunt  that  he  had 
been  attending.  He  admitted  that  one  might  forgive 
and  forget  what  did  not  come  within  the  scope  of  the 
law,  but,  as  he  had  said  to  Helen  before,  a  man  was 
bound,  he  said,  to  punish  the  wrong  which  through 
him  affected  the  community. 

"George,"  said  his  aunt,  "I  differ  from  you  there. 
Nobody  ought  to  go  to  law  to  punish  an  injury.  I 
would  forgive  ever  so  many  before  I  would  run  the  risk 
of  the  law.  But  as  to  forgetting  an  injury — some  in- 
juries at  least— no,  that  I  never  would  ! — And  I  don't 
believe,  let  the  young  man  say  what  he  will,  that  that  is 
required  of  any  one." 

Helen  said  nothing.  She  had  no  enemies  to  forgive, 
no  wrongs  worth  remembering,  and  was  not  interested 
in  the  question.  She  thought  it  a  very  good  sermon 
indeed. 

When  Bascombe  left  for  London  in  the  morning,  he 
carried  with  him  the  lingering  rustle  of  silk,  the  odor 
of  lavender,  and  a  certain  blueness,  not  of  the  sky, 
which  seemed  to  have  something  behind  it,  as  never  did 
the  sky  to  him.  He  had  never  met  woman  so  worthy 
of  being  his  mate,  either  as  regarded  the  perfection 
of  her  form  or  the  hidden  development  of  her  brain — 
evident  in  her  capacity  for  the  reception  of  truth — as  his 
own  cousin,  Helen  Lingard.  Might  not  the  relationship 
account  for  the  fact  } 


THE   DWARFS.  65 


Helen  thought  nothing  to  correspond.  She  consid- 
ered George  a  fine  manly  fellow.  What  bold  and  ori- 
ginal ideas  he  had  about  every  thing  !  Her  brother  was 
a  baby  to  him  !  But  then  Leopold  was  such  a  love  of  a 
boy  !  Such  eyes  and  such  a  smile  were  not  to  be  seen 
on  this  side  the  world.  Helen  liked  her  cousin,  was  at- 
tached to  her  aunt,  but  loved  her  brother  Leopold,  and 
loved  nobod}^  else.  His  Hindoo  mother,  high  of  caste, 
had  given  him  her  lustrous  eyes  and  pearly  smile, 
which,  the  first  moment  she  saw  him,  won  his  sister's 
heart.  He  was  then  but  eight  years  old,  and  she  but 
eleven.  Since  then  he  had  been  brought  up  by  his  fa- 
ther's elder  brother,  who  had  the  family  estate  in  York- 
shire, but  he  had  spent  part  of  all  bis  holidays  with  her, 
and  they  often  wrote  to  each  other.  Of  late  indeed  his 
letters  had  not  been  many,  and  a  rumor  had  reached 
her  that  he  was  not  doing  quite  satisfactorily  at  Cam- 
bridge, but  she  explained  it  away  to  the  full  content- 
ment of  her  own  heart,  and  went  on  building  such  cas- 
tles as  her  poor  aerolithic  skill  could  command,  with 
Leopold  ever  and  always  as  the  sharer  of  her  self-expan- 
sion. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE    CURATE    AT    HOME. 

F  we  could  arrive  at  the  feelings  of  a  fish  of  the 
northern  ocean  around  which  the  waters  sud- 
denly rose  to  tropical  temperature,  and 
swarmed  with  strange  forms  of  life,  uncouth 
and  threatening,  we  should  have  a  fair  symbol  of  the 
mental  condition  in  which  Thomas  Wingfold  now  found 
himself.  The  spiritual  fluid  in  which  his  being  floated 
had  become  all  at  once  more  potent,  and  he  was  in  conse- 
quence uncomfortable.  A  certain  intermittent  stinging, 
as  if  from  the  flashes  of  some  moral  electricity,  had  begun 
to  pass  in  various  directions  through  the  crude  and 
chaotic  mass  he  called  himself,  and  he  felt  strangely 
restless.  It  never  occurred  to  him — as  how  should  it.'' 
— that  he  might  have  commenced  undergoing  the  most 
marvellous  of  all  changes, — one  so  marvellous,  indeed, 
that  for  a  man  to  foreknow  its  result  or  understand 
what  he  was  passing  through,  would  be  more  strange 
than  that  a  caterpillar  should  recognize  in  the  rainbow- 
winged  butterfly  hovering  over  the  flower  at  whose  leaf 
he  was  gnawing  the  perfected  idea  of  his  own  potential 


THE   CURATE   AT   HOME.  67 

self — I  mean  the  change  of  being  born  again.  Nor  were 
the  symptoms  such  as  would  necessarily  have  suggested, 
even  to  a  man  experienced  in  the  natural  history  of  the 
infinite,  that  the  process  had  commenced. 

A  restless  night  followed  his  reflections  in  the  church- 
yard, and  he  did  not  w^ake  at  all  comfortable.  Not  that 
ever  he  had  been  in  the  way  of  feelln^  comfortable.  To 
him  life^had  not  been  a  land  fic^wizif  with  milk  and  ho- 
ney. He  had  had  few  smiles,  ^.nd  not  many  of  those 
grasps  of  the  hand  which  let  a  man  know  another  man 
is  near  him  in  the  oattJe — for  had  it  not  been  something 
of  a  battle,  how  could  he  have  come  to  the  age  of  six- 
and-twenty  without  being  worse  than  he  was  ?  He 
would  not  have  said,  "  All  these  have  I  kept  from  my 
youth  up,"  but  I  can  say  that  for  several  of  them  he 
had  showK  fight,  although  only  One  knew  any  thing  of 
it.  This  morning,  then,  it  was  not  merely  that  he  did 
not  feel  comfortable  :  he  was  consciously  uncomforta-- 
ble.  Things  were  getting  too  hot  for  him.  That  infidel 
fellow  had  poked  several  most  awkward  questions  at 
him — yes,  into  him,  and  a  good  many  more  had  in  him- 
self arisen  to  meet  them.  Usually  he  lay  a  little  while 
before  he  came  to  himself;  but  this  morning  he  came  to 
himself  at  once,  and  not  liking  the  interview,  jumped 
out  of  bed  as  if  he  had  hoped  to  leave  himself  there  be- 
hind him. 

He  had  always  scorned  lying,  until  one  day,  when  still 
a  boy  at  school,  he  suddenly  found  that  he  had  told 
a  lie,  after  which  he  hated  it — yet  now,  if  he  was  to  be- 
lieve— ah  !  whom  ?  did  not  the   positive  fellow  and  his 


68  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

own  conscience  say  the  same  thing? — his  profession, 
his  very  hfe  was  a  He  !  the  very  bread  he  ate  grew  on 
the  rank  fields  of  falsehood  !  N(),  no  ;  it  was  absurd  ! 
it  could  not  be  !  What  had  he  done  to  find  himself 
damned  to  such  a  depth  ?  Yet  the  thing  must  be  looked 
to.  He  bathed  himself  without  remorse  and  never  even 
shivered,  though  the  water  in  his  tub  was  bitterly  cold, 
dressed  with  more  haste  than  precision,  hurried  over 
his  breakfast,  neglected  his  newspaper,  and  took  down 
a  volume  of  early  church  history.  But  he  could  not 
read:  the  thing  was  hopeless — utterly.  With  the 
wolves  of  doubt  and  the  jackals  of  shame  howling  at  his 
heels,  how  could  he  start  for  a  thousand-mile  race  ! 
For  God's  sake  give  him  a  weapon  to  turn  and  face 
them  with  !  Evidence  !  all  of  it  that  was  to  be  had  was 
but  such  as  one  man  received,  another  man  refused  ; 
and  the  popular  acceptance  was  worth  no  more  in  re- 
spect of  Christianity  than  of  Mohammedanism,  for  how 
many  had  given  the  subject  at  all  better  consideration 
than  himself  .'^  And  there  was  Sunday  with  its  wolves 
and  jackals,  and  but  a  hedge  between  !  He  did  not  so 
much  mind  reading  the  prayers  :  he  was  not  accounta- 
ble for  what  was  in  them,  although  it  was  bad  enough 
to  stand  up  and  read  them.  Happy  thing  he  was  not  a 
dissenter,  for  then  he  would  have  had  to  pretend  to 
pray  from  his  own  soul,  which  would  have  been  too  hor- 
rible !  But  there  was  the  sermon  !  That  at  least  was 
supposed  to  contain,  or  to  be  presented  as  containing, 
his  own  sentiments.  Now  what  were  his  sentiments.? 
For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  tell.     Had  he  any  senti- 


THE   CURATE   AT    HOME.  69 


ments,  any  opinions,  any  beliefs,  any  unbeliefs?  He 
had  plenty  of  sermons,  old,  yellow,  respectable  ser- 
'  mons,  not  lithographed,  neither  composed  by  mind 
nor  copied  out  by  hand  unknown,  but  in  the  ne^i^ 
writing  of  his  old  D.D.  uncle,  so  legible  that  he  nevei 
felt  it  necessary  to  read  them  over  befotehand— 
just  saw  that  he  had  the  right  one.  A  hundred  and 
fjfty-seven  such  sermons,  the  odd  one  for  the  year  that 
began  on  a  Sunday,  of  unquestionable  orthodoxy,  had 
his  kind  old  uncle  left  him  in  his  will,  with  the  feeling 
probably  that  he  was  not  only  setting  him  up  in  ser- 
mons for  life,  but  giving  him  a  fair  start  as  well  in  the 
race  of  which  a  stall  in  some  high  cathedral  was  the  goal. 
For  his  own  part  he  had  never  made  a  sermon,  at  least 
never  one  he  had  judged  worth  preaching  to  a  congre- 
gation. He  had  rather  a  high  idea,  he  thought,  of 
preaching,  and  these  sermonsof  his  uncle  he  considered 
really  excellent.  Some  of  them,  however,  were  alto- 
r;^ether  doctrinal,  some  very  polemical  :  of  such  he 
must  now  beware.  He  would  see  of  what  kind  was  the 
next  in  order  ;  he  would  read  it  and  make  sure  it  con- 
tained nothing  he  was  not,  in  some  degree  at  least,  pre- 
pared to  hold  his  face  to  and  defend — if  he  could  not 
absolutely  swear  he  believed  it  purely  true. 
j  He  did  as  resolved.  The  first  he  took  up  was  in  de- 
I  fence  of  the  Athanasian  creed  !  That  would  not  do. 
He  tried  another.  That  was  upon  the  Inspiration  of  the 
Scriptures.  He  glanced  through  it — found  Moses  on  a 
level  with  St.  Paul,  and  Jonah  with  St.  John,  and 
doubted  greatly.     There  might  be  a  sense — but —  !     No, 


^0  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

he  would  not  meddle  with  it.  He  tried  a  third  ;  that 
was  on  the  authority  of  the  Church.  It  would  not  do. 
He  had  read  each  of  all  these  sermons  at  least  once  to 
a  congregation,  with  perfect  composure  and  following 
indifference  if  not  peace  of  mind,  but  now  he  could  not 
come  on  one  with  which  he  was  even  in  sympathy — not 
to  say  one  of  which  he  was  certain  that  it  was  more 
true  than  false.  At  last  he  took  up  the  odd  one — that 
which  could  come  into  use  but  once  in  a  week  of  years 
— and  this  was  the  sermon  Bascombe  heard  and  com- 
mented upon.  Having  read  it  over,  and  found  nothing 
to  compromise  him  with  his  conscience,  which  was  like 
an  irritable  man  trying  to  find  his  way  in  a  windy  wood 
by  means  of  a  broken  lantern,  he  laid  all  the  rest  aside 
and  felt  a  little  relieved. 

Wingfold  had  never  neglected  the  private  duty  of  a 
^ergj'-man  in  regard  of  morning  and  evening  devotions, 
but  was  in  the  habit  of  dressing  and  undressing  his  soul 
with  the  help  of  certain  chosen  contents  of  the  prayer- 
book— a  somewhAt  circuitous  mode  of  communicating 
with  him  who  was  so  near  him, — that  is,  if  St.  Paul  was 
right  in  saying  that  he  lived  and  moved  and  was  in 
Him  ;  but  that  Saturday  he  knelt  by  his  bedside  at 
noon,  and  began  to  pray  or  try  to  pray  as  he  had  never 
prayed  or  tried  to  pray  before.  The  perplexed  man 
cried  out  within  the  clergyman,  and  pressed  for  some 
acknowledgment  from  God  of  the  being  he  had  made. 

But — was  it  strange  to  tell  }  or  if  strange,  was  it  not 
the  most  natural  result  nevertheless.^ — almost  the  same 


THE   CURATE    AT   HOME. 


moment  he  began  to  pra}^  in  this  truer  fashion,  the 
doubt  rushed  up  in  him  like  a  torrent-spring  from  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep — Was  there — could  there  be 
a  God  at  all  ?  a  real  being  who  might  actually  hear  hij 
prayer?  In  this  crowd  of  houses  and  shops  and 
churches,  amidst  buying  and  selling  and  ploughing  and 
praising  and  backbiting,  this  endless  pursuit  of  ends 
and  of  means  to  ends,  while  yet  even  the  wind  that  blew 
where  it  listed,  blew  under  laws  most  fixed,  and  the 
courses  of  the  stars  were  known  to  a  hair's-breadth, — 
was  there — could  there  be  a  silent  invisible  God  work- 
ing his  own  will  in  it  all  ?  Was  there  a  driver  to  that 
chariot  whose  multitudinous  horses  seemed  tearing  away 
from  the  pole  in  all  directions  ?  and  was  he  indeed,  al- 
though invisible  and  inaudible,  guiding  that  chariot, 
sure  as  the  flight  of  a  comet,  straight  to  its  goal  ?  Or 
was  there  a  soul  to  that  machine  whose  myriad  wheels 
went  grinding  on  and  on,  grinding  the  stars  into  dust, 
matter  into  man,  and  man  into  nothingness  ?  Was 
there — could  there  be  a  living  heart  to  the  universe  that 
did  positively  hear  him — poor,  misplaced,  dishonest,  ig- 
norant Thomas  Wingfold,  who  had  presumed  to  under- 
take a  work  he  neither  could  perform  nor  had  the  cou- 
rage to  forsake,  when  out  of  the  misery  of  the  grimy 
little  cellar  of  his  consciousness  he  cried  aloud  for  light 
and  something  to  make  a  man  of  him  ?  For  now 
that  Thomas  had  begun  to  doubt  like  an  honest 
being,  every  ugly  thing  within  him  began  to  show  itself 
to  his  awakened  probity. 

But  honest  and  of  good  parentage  as  the  doubts  were, 


72  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


no  sooner  had  they  shown  themselves,  than  the  wings 
of  the  ascending  prayers  fluttered  feebly  and  failed. 
They  sank  slowly,  fell,  and  lay  as  dead,  while  all  the 
wretchedness  of  his  position  rushed  back  upon  him 
with  redoubled  inroad.  Here  was  a  man  who  could  not 
pray,  and  yet  must  go  and  read  prayers  and  preach  in 
the  old  attesting  church,  as  if  he  too  were  of  those  who 
knew  something  of  the  secrets  of  the  Almighty,  and 
could  bring  out  from  his  treasury,  if  not  things  new  and 
surprising,  then  things  old  and  precious  !  Ought  he 
not  to  send  round  the  bell-man  to  cry  aloud  that  there 
would  be  no  service  ?  But  what  right  had  he  to  lay  his 
troubles,  the  burden  of  his  dishonesty,  upon  the  shoul- 
ders of  them  who  faithfully  believed,  and  who  looked  to 
him  to  break  to  them  their  daily  bread  ?  And  would 
not  any  attempt  at  a  statement  of  the  reasons  he  had 
for  such  an  outrageous  breach  of  all  decorum  be  taken 
for  a  denial  of  those  things  concerning  which  he  only 
desired  most  earnestly  to  know  that  they  were  true  ? 
For  he  had  received  from  somewhere,  he  knew  not  how 
or  whence,  a  genuine  prejudice  in  favor  of  Christiani- 
ty, while  of  those  refractions  and  distorted  reflexes  of  it 
which  go  by  its  name  and  rightly  disgust  many,  he  had 
had  few  of  the  tenets  thrust  upon  his  acceptance. 

Thus  into  the  dark  pool  of  his  dull  submissive  life, 
the  bold  words  of  the  unbeliever  had  fallen — a  dead  stone 
perhaps,  but  causing  a  thousand  motions  in  the  living 
water.  Question  crowded  upon  question,  and  doubt 
upon  doubt,  until  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and  start- 


THE   CURATE   AT   HOME.  73 

ing  from  the  floor  on  which  at  last  he  had  sunk  pros- 
trate, rushed  in  all  but  involuntary  haste  from  the 
house,  and  scarcely  knew  where  he  was  until,  in  a  sort, 
he  came  to  himself  some  little  distance  from  the  town, 
wandering  hurriedly  in  field-paths. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


AN    INCIDENT. 


T  was  a  fair  morning  of  All  Hallows'  summer. 
The  trees  were  nearly  despoiled,  but  the 
grass  was  green,  and  there  was  a  memory  of 
spring  in  the  low  sad  sunshine  :  even  the 
sunshine,  the  gladdest  thing  in  creation,  is  sad  some- 
times. There  was  no  wind,  nothing  to  light  with, 
nothing  to  turn  his  mind  from  its  own  miserable 
perplexities.  How  endlessly  his  position  as  a  clergy- 
man, he  thought,  added  to  his  miseries  !  Had  he  been 
a  man  unpledged,  he  could  have  taken  his  own  time  to 
think  out  the  truths  of  his  relations  ;  as  it  was,  he  felt 
like  a  man  in  a  coffin  :  out  he  must  get,  but  had  not 
room  to  make  a  single  vigorous  effort  for  freedom  !  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  yet,  that,  unpressed  from  without, 
his  honesty  unstung,  he  might  have  taken  more  time  to 
find  out  where  he  was  than  would  have  been  either 
honest  or  healthful. 

He  came  to  a  stile  where  his  path  joined  another  that 
ran  both  ways,  and  there  seated  himself,  just  as  the 
same  strange  couple  I  have  already  described  as  met  by 


AN    INCIDENT.  75 


Miss  Lingard  and  Mr.  Bascombe  approached  and  went 
by.  After  they  had  gone  a  good  way,  he  caught  sight 
of  something  lying  in  the  path,  and  going  to  pick  it  up, 
found  it  was  a  small  manuscript  volume. 

With  the  pleasurable  instinct  of  service,  he  hastened 
after  them.  They  heard  him,  and  turning  waited  for  his 
approach.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  presenting  the  book 
to  the  young  woman,  asked  if  she  had  dropped  it.  Pos- 
sibly had  they  been  ordinary  people  of  the  class  to  which 
they  seemed  to  belong,  he  would  not  have  uncovered  to 
them,  for  he  naturally  shrunk  from  what  might  be 
looked  upon  as  a  display  of  courtesy,  but  their  deformi- 
ty rendered  it  imperative.  Her  face  flushed  so  at  sight 
of  the  book  that,  in  order  to  spare  her  uneasiness, 
Wingfold  could  not  help  saying  with  a  smile, 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed  :    I  have  not  read  one  word  of  it.'' 
She  returned  his  smile  with  much  sweetness,  and  said, 
"  I  see  I  need  not  have  been  afraid." 
Her  companion  jomed  in  thanks   and  apologies  for 
having  caused  him  so  much  trouble.     Wingfold  assured 
them  it  had  been  but  a  pleasure.     It  was  far  from  a 
scrutinizing  look  with  which  he  regarded  them,  but  the 
interview  left  him  with  the  feeling  that  their  faces  were 
refined  and   intelligent,   and   their   speech  was    good. 
f  Again  he  lifted  his  rather  shabby  hat,  the  man  respond- 
ed with  equal  politeness  in  removing  from  a  great  gray 
head  one  rather  better,  *and  they  turned  from  each  other 
and  went  their  ways,   the  sight  of  their  malformation 
arousing  in  the  curate  no  such  questions  as  those  with 
which  it  had  agitated  the  tongue   if  not  the  heart  of 


76  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


George  Bascombe,  to  widen  the  scope  of  his  perplexi- 
ties. He  had  heard  the  loud  breathing  of  the  man  and 
seen  the  projecting  eyes  of  the  woman,  but  he  never  said 
to  himself  therefore  that  they  were  more  hardly  dealt 
with  than  he.  Had  such  a  thought  occurred  to  him,  he 
would  have  comforted  the  pain^  of  his  sympathy  with 
the  reflection  that  at  least  neither  of  them  was  a  curate  of 
the  Church  of  Engknd  who  knew  positively  nothing  of 
the  foundation  u^-on  which  that  church  professed  to 
stand. 

How  he  got  through  the  Sunday  he*never  could  have 
told.  What  ti^o-^.s  a  man  may  get  through — he  knows 
not  how  !  As  soon  as  it  was  over,  it  was  all  a  mist — 
from  which  gleamed  or  gloomed  large  the  face  of 
George  Biscombe  with  its  keen  unbelieving  eyes  and 
scornful  lips.  All  the  time  he  was  reading  the  prayers 
and  lessons,  all  the  time  he  was  reading  his  uncle's  ser- 
mon, he  had  not  only  been  aware  of  those  eyes,  but 
aware  also  of  what  lay  behind  them — seeing  and  reading 
the  reflex  of  himself  in  Bascombe's  brain  ;  but  nothing 
more  whatever  could  he  recall. 

Like  finger-posts  dim-seen,  on  a  moorland  journey, 
through  the  gathering  fogs,  Sunday  after  Sunday 
passed.  I  will  not  request  my  reader  to  accompany  me 
across  the  confusions  upon  which  was  blowing  that 
wind  whose  breath  was  causing  a  world  to  pass  from 
chaos  to  cosmos.  One  who  has  ever  gone  through  any 
experience  of  the  kind  himself  will  be  able  to  imagine 
it ;  to  one  who  has  not,  my  descriptions  would  be  of 
small  service  :  he  would  but  shrink  from  the  represen- 


AN   INCIDENT.  7/ 


tation  as  diseased  and  of  no  general  interest.  And 
he  would  be  so  far  right,  that  the  interest  in  such 
things  must  be  most  particular  and  individual  or  not 
at  all. 

The  weeks  passed  and  seemed  to  bring  him  no  light, 
only  increased  earnestness  in  the  search  after  it.  Some 
assurance  he  must  find  soon,  else  he  would  resign  his 
curacy,  and  look  out  for  a  situation  as  tutor. 

Of  course  all  this  he  ought  to  have  gone  through 
long  ago  !  But  how  can  a  man  go  through  any  thing  till 
his  hour  be  come  ?  Saul  of  Tarsus  was  sitting  at  the 
feet  of  Gamaliel  when  our  Lord  said  to  his  apostles, 
"  Yea,  the  time  cometh  that  whosoever  killeth  you  will 
think  that  he  doeth  God  service."  Wingfold  had  all 
this  time  been  skirting  the  wall  of  the  kingdom  of  hea- 
ven without  even  knowing  that  there  was  a  wall  there, 
not  to  say  seeing  a  gate  in  it.  The  fault  lay  with  those 
who  had  brought  him  up  to  the  church  as  to  the  profes- 
sion of  medicine,  or  the  bar,  or  the  drapery  business — 
as  if  it  lay  on  one  level  of  choice  with  other  human  call- 
ings. Nor  were  the  honored  of  the  church  who  had 
taught  him  free  from  blame,  who  never  warned  him  to 
put  his  shoes  from  off  his  feet  for  the  holiness  of  the 
ground.  But  how  were  they  to  warn  him,  if  they  had 
sowed  and  reaped  and  gathered  into  barns  on  that 
ground,  and  had  never  discovered  therein  treasure  more 
holy  than  libraries,  incomes,  and  the  visits  of  royalty  ? 
As  to  visions  of  truth  that  make  a  man  sigh  with  joy, 
and  enlarge  his  heart  with  more  than  human  tenderness 
— how  many  of  those  men  had  ever  found  such  trea- 


78  THOMAS   AVINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

sures  in  the  fields  of  the  church  ?  How  many  of  them 
knew  save  by  hearsay  whether  there  be  any  Holy  Ghost ! 
How  then  were  they  to  warn  other  men  from  the  dan- 
gers of  following  in  their  footsteps  and  becoming  such 
as  they?  Where,  in  a  general  ignorance  and  commu- 
nity of  fault,  shall  we  begin  to  blame  ?  Wingfold  had 
no  time  to  accuse  any  one  after  the  first  gush  of  bitter- 
ness. He  had  to  awake  from  the  dead  and  cry  for  light, 
and  was  soon  in  the  bitter  agony  of  the  cataleptic  strug- 
gle between  life  and  death. 

He  thought  afterwards,  when  the  time  had  passed, 
that  surely  in  this  period  of  darkness  he  had  been  visit- 
ed and  upheld  by  a  power  whose  presence  and  even  in- 
fluence escaped  his  consciousness.  He  knew  not  how 
else  he  could  have  got  through  it.  Also  he  remembered 
that  strange  helps  had  come  to  him  ;  that  the  aspects  of 
nature  then  wonderfully  softened  towards  him,  that 
then  first  he  began  to  feel  sympathy  with  her  ways  and 
shows,  and  to  see  in  them  all  the  working  of  a  diffused 
humanity.  He  remembered  how  once  a  hawthorn-bud 
set  him  weeping  ;  and  how  once,  as  he  went  miserable 
to  church,  a  child  looked  up  in  his  face  and  smiled,  and 
how  in  the  strength  of  that  smile  he  had  walked  boldly 
to  the  lectern. 

He  never  knew  how  long  he  had  been  in  the  strange 
birth-agony,  in  which  the  soul  is  as  it  were  at  once  the 
mother  that  bears  and  the  child  that  is  born. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


A    REPORT    OF    PROGRESS. 


N  the  mean  time  George  Bascombe  came  and 
went  ;  every  visit  he  showed  clearer  notions 
as  to  what  he  was  for  and  what  he  was 
against ;  every  visit  he  found  Helen  more 
worthy  and  desirable  than  theretofore,  and  flattered 
himself  he  made  progress  in  the  conveyance  of 
his  opinions  and  judgments  over  into  her  mind.  His 
various  accomplishments  went  far  in  aid  of  his  de- 
sign. There  was  hardly  any  thing  Helen  could  do  that 
George  could  not  do  as  well,  and  some  he  could  do  bet- 
ter, while  there  were  many  things  George  was  at  home 
in  which  were  sealed  t^  her.  The  satisfaction  of  teach- 
ing such  a  pupil  he  found  great.  When  at  length  he 
began  to  make  love  to  her,  Helen  found  it  rather  agree- 
able than  otherwise,  and  if  there  was  a  little  more  mak- 
ing in  it  than  some  women  would  have  liked.  Helen  was 
not  sufficiently  in  love  with  him  to  detect  its  presence. 
Still  the  pleasure  of  his  preference  was  such  that  it 
opened  her  mind  with  a  favorable  prejudice  towards 


8o  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


whatever  in  the  shape  of  theory  or  doctrine  he  would 
have  her  receive  ;  and  much  that  a  more  experienced 
mind  would  have  rsjected  because  of  its  evident  results 
in  practice,  "v'as  by  her  accepted  in  the  ignorance  which 
confined  her  regard  of  his  propositions  to  their  intellec- 
tual relations,  and  prevented  her  from  following  the.n 
into  their  influences  upon  life,  which  would  have  re- 
flected light  upon  their  character.  For  life  in  its  real 
sense  was  to  her  as  yet  little  more  definite  and  present 
than  a  dream  that  waits  for  the  coming  night.  Hence 
when  her  cousin  at  length  ventured  to  attack  even 
those  doctrines  which  all  women  who  have  received  a 
Christian  education  would  naturally  be  expected  to  re- 
vere the  most,  she  was  able  to  listen  to  him  unshocked. 
But  she  little  thought,  or  he  either,  that  it  v/as  only  in 
virtue  of  what  Christian  teaching  she  had  had  that  she 
was  capable  of  appreciating  what  v/as  grand  in  his  doc- 
trine of  living  for  posterity  without  a  hope  of  good  re- 
sult to  self  beyond  the  consciousness  that  future  gene- 
rations of  perishing  men  and  women  would  be  a  little 
more  comfortable,  and  perhaps  a  little  less  faulty  there- 
from. She  did  not  reflect  either  that  no  one's  theory 
concerning  death  is  of  much  weight  in  his  youth  while 
life  feels  interminable,  or  that  the  gift  of  comfort  during  a 
life  of  so  little  value  that  the  giver  can  part  with  it 
without  regret  is  scarcely  one  to  be  looked  upon  as  a 
mighty  benefaction. 

"  But  truth  is  truth,"  George  would  have  replied. 

What  you  profess  to  teach  them  might  be  a  fact,  but 
could  never  be  a  truth,  I  answer.     And  the  very  value 


A    REPORT   OF    PROGRESS.  8l 


which  you  falsely  put  upon  facts  you  have  learned  to  at- 
tribute to  them  from  the  supposed  existence  of  some- 
thing at  the  root  of  all  facts,  namely  truths^  or  eternal 
laws  of  being.  Still,  if  you  believe  that  men  will  be 
happier  from  learning  your  discovery  that  there  is  no 
God,  preach  it,  and  prosper  in  proportion  to  its  truth. 
No  ;  that  from  my  pen  would  be  a  curse — no,  preach  it 
not,  I  say,  until  you  have  searched  all  spaces  of  space, 
up  and  down-,  in  greatness  and  smallness — where  I  grant 
indeed,  but  you  can  not  know,  that  you  will  not  find  him 
— and  all  regions  of  thought  and  feeling,  all  the  unknown 
mental  universe  of  possible  discovery — preach  it  not 
until  you  have  searched  that  also,  I  say,  lest  what  you 
count  a  truth  should  prove  to  be  no  fact,  and  there 
should  after  all  be  somewhere,  somehow,  a  very,  living 
God,  a  Truth  indeed,  in  whom  is  the  universe.  If  you 
say,  "  But  I  am  convinced  there  is  none,"  I  answer — You 
may  be  convinced  that  there  is  no  God  such  as  this  or 
that  in  whom  men  imagine  they  believe,  but  you  can  not 
be  convinced  there  is  no  God. 

Meantime  George  did  not  forget  the  present  of  this  life 
in  its  future,  continued  particular  about  his  cigars  and 
his  wine,  ate  his  dinners  with  what  some  would  call  a 
good  conscience  and  I  would  call  a  dull  one,  were  I  sure 
it  was  not  a  good  digestion  they  really  meant,  and  kept 
reading  hard  and  to  purpose. 

Matters  as  between  the  two  made  no  rapid  advance. 
George  went  on  loving  Helen  more  than  any  other  wo- 
m.an,  and  Helen  went  on  liking  George  next  best  to  her 
brother   Leopold.     Whether   it   came   of   prudence,    of 


82  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

which  George  possessed  not  a  little,  of  coldness  of  tem- 
perament, or  a  pride  that  would  first  be  sure  of  ac- 
ceptance, I  do  not  know,  but  he  made  no  formal  offer 
yet  of  handing  himself  over  to  Helen,  and  certainly 
Helen  was  in  no  haste  to  hear,  more  than  he  to  utter, 
the  irrevocable. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


JEREMY    TAYLOR. 

NE  Tuesday  morning  in  the  spring,  the  curate 
received  by  the  local  post  the  following  let- 
ter dated  from  The  Park-Gate  : 

"  Respected  Sir :  An  obligation  on  my 
part  which  you  have  no  doubt  forgotten  gives  me 
courage  to  address  you  on  a  matter  which  seems  to  me 
of  no  small  consequence  concerning  yourself.  You  do 
not  know  me,  and  the  name  at  the  end  of  my  letter  will 
have  for  you  not  a  single  association.  The  matter  itself 
must  be  its  own  excuse. 

•'  I  sat  in  a  free  seat  at  the  Abbey  church  last  Sunday 
morning.  I  had  not  listened  long  to  the  sermon  ere  I 
began  to  fancy  I  foresaw  what  was  coming,  and  in  a  ±c\v 
minuies  more  I  seemed  to  recognize  it  as  one  of  Jeremy 
Taylor's.  When  I  came  home  I  found  that  the  best 
portions  of  one  of  his  sermons  had,  in  the  one  you  read, 
been  wrought  up  with  other  material. 

"  If,  sir,  I  imagined  you  to  be  one  of  such  as  would 
willingly  have  that  regarded  as  their  own  which  was 
better  than  they  could  produce,  and  would  with  con- 


84  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

tentment  receive  any  resulting  congratulations,  I  should 
feel  that  I  was  only  doing  you  a  wrong  if  I  gave  you  a 
hint  which  might  aid  you  in  avoiding  detection  ;  for  the 
sooner  the  truth  concerning  such  a  one  was  known,  and 
the  judgment  of  society  brought  to  bear  upon  it,  the 
better  for  him,  whether  the  result  were  justification  or 
the  contrary.  But  I  have  read  that  in  your  countenance 
and  demeanor  which  convinces  me  that,  however  cus- 
tom and  the  presence  of  worldly  elements  in  the  com- 
rrlunity  to  which  you  belong  may  have  influenced  your 
judgment,  you  require  only  to  be  set  thinking  of  a  mat- 
ter, to  follow  your  conscience  with  regard  to  whatever 
you  may  find  involved  in  it. — I  have  the  honor  to  be, 
respected  sir,  your  obedient  servant  and  well-wisher, 
Joseph  Polwarth." 

Wingfold  sat  staring  at  the  letter,  slightly  stunned. 
The  feeling  which  first  grew  recognizable  in  the  chaos 
it  had  caused  was  vexation  at  having  so  committed 
himself ;  the  next,  annoyance  with  his  dead  old  uncle  for 
having  led  him  into  such  a  scrape.  There  in  the  good 
doctor's  own  handwriting  lay  the  sermon,  looking  no- 
wise different  from  the  rest  !  Had  he  forgotten  his 
marks  of  quotation  ?  Or  to  that  sermon  did  he  always 
have  a  few  words  of  extempore  introduction  ?  For 
himself  he  was  as  ignorant  of  Jeremy  Taylor  as  of  Zo- 
roaster. It  could  not  be  that  that  was  his  uncle's  mode  of 
making  his  sermons  ?  Was  it  possible  they  could  all  be 
pieces  of  literary  mosaic  ?  It  was  very  annoying.  If 
the  fact  came  to  be  known,  it  would  certainly  be  said 
that  he  had  attempted  to  pass  of!  Jeremy  Taylor's  for  his 


JEREMY   TAYLOR.  85 


own — as  if  he  would  have  the  impudence  to  make  the 
attempt,  and  with  such  a  well-known  writer  !  But  what 
difference  did  it  make  whether  the  writci  was  well  or  ill 
known  ?  None  except  as  to  the  relative  probabilities 
of  escape  and  discovery  !  And  should  the  accusation  be 
brought  against  him,  how  was  he  to  answer  it  ?  B/ 
burdening  the  reputation  of  his  departed  uncle  with  the 
odium  of  the  fault  ?  Was  it  worse  in  his  uncle  to  use 
Jeremy  Taylor  than  in  himself  to  use  his  uncle  ?  Or  would 
his  remonstrants  accept  the  translocation  of  blame  ? 
Would  the  church-going  or  chapel-going  inhabitants  of 
Glaston  remain  mute  when  it  came  to  be  discovered 
that  since  his  appointment  he  had  not  once  preached  a 
sermon  of  his  own  ?  How  was  it  that  knowing  all 
about  it  in  the  background  of  his  mind,  he  had  never 
come  to  think  of  it  before  ?  It  was  true  that,  admirer 
of  his  uncle  as  he  was,  he  had  never  imagined  himself 
reaping  any  laurels  from  the  credit  of  his  sermons  ;  it 
was  equally  true,  however,  that  he  had  not  told  a  single 
person  of  the  hidden  cistern  whence  he  drew  his  large 
discourse.  But  what  could  it  matter  to  any  man,  so 
long  as  a  good  sermon  was  preasched,  where  it  came 
from  ?  He  did  not  occupy  the  pulpit  in  virtue  of  his 
personality,  but  of  his  office,  and  it  was  not  a  place  for 
the  display  of  originality,  but  for  dispensing  the  bread 
of  life.  From  the  stores  of  other  people  ?  Yes,  certain- 
ly— if  other  people's  bread  was  better,  and  no  one  the 
worse  for  his  taking  it.  "  For  me,  I  have  none,"  he  said 
to  himself.  Why  then  should  that  letter  have  made 
him  uncomfortable  ?    What  had  he  to  be  ashamed  of  ? 


86  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


Why  should  he  object  to  being  found  out?  What  did 
he  want  to  conceal  ?  Did  not  every  body  know  that 
very  few  clergymen  really  made  their  own  sermons  ? 
Was  it  not  absurd,  this  mute  agreement  that,  although 
all  men  knew  to  the  contrary,  it  must  appear  to  be  taken 
for  granted  that  a  man's  sermons  were  of  his  own 
mental  production  ?  Still  more  absurd  as  well  as  cruel 
was  the  way  in  which  they  sacrificed  to  the  known  false- 
hood by  the  contempt  they  poured  upon  any  fellow  the 
moment  they  were  able  to  say  of  productions  which  never 
could  have  been  his,  that  they  were  by  this  man  or  that 
man,  or  bought  at  this  shop  or  that  shop  in  Great  Queen 
Street  or  Booksellers'  Row.  After  that  he  was  an  en- 
during object  for  the  pointed  finger  of  a  mild  scorn.  It 
was  nothing  but  the  old  Spartan  game  of  steal  as  3^ou 
will  and  enjoy  as  you  can  :  you  are  nothing  the  worse  ; 
but  woe  to  you  if  you  are  caught  in  the  act !  TherQiaas 
something  contemptible  about  the  whole  thing.  He 
was  a  greater  humbug  than  he  had  believed  himself,  for 
upon  this  humbug  which  he  now  found  himself  despis- 
ing he  had  himself  been  acting  diligently  !  It  dawned 
upon  him  that,  whiJe  there  was  nothing  wrong  in 
preaching  his  uncle's  sermons,  there  was  evil  in  yielding 
to  cast  any  veil,  even  the  most  transparent,  over  the  fact 
that  the  sermons  were  not  his  own. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THE     PARK     GATE. 


E  had,  however,  one  considerate,  even  friendly 
parishioner,  it  seemed,  whom  it  became  him 
at  least  to  thank  for  his  openness.  He 
ceased  to  pace  the  room,  sat  down  at  his 
writing-table,  and  acknowledged  Mr.  Polwarth's  let- 
ter, expressing  his  obligation  for  its  contents,  and 
saying  that  he  would  do  himself  the  honor  of  call- 
ing upon  him  that  afternoon,  in  the  hope  of  being 
allowed  to  say  for  himself  what  little  could  be  said, 
and  of  receiving  counsel  m  regard  to  the  difficulty 
wherein  he  found  himself.  tie  sent  the  note  by 
his  landlady's  boy,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished 
his  lunch,  which  meant  his  dinner,  for  he  could  no 
longer  afford  to  dull  his  soul  in  its  best  time  for  reading 
and  thinking,  he  set  out  to  find  Park  Gate,  which  he 
i  took  for  some  row  of  dwellings  in  the  suburbs. 

Going  in  the  direction  pointed  out,  and  finding  he 
had  left  all  the  houses  behind  him,  he  stopped  at  the 
gate  of  Osterfield  Park  to  make  further  inquiry.  The 
door  of  the  lodge  was  opened  by  one  whom  he  took,  for 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


the  lirst  half-second,  to  be  a  child,  but  recognized,  the 
next,  as  the  same  young  woman  whose  book  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  fields  a  few  months  before.  He  had 
never  seen  her  since,  but  her  deformity  and  her  face  to- 
gether had  made  it  easy  to  remember  her. 

**We  have  met  before,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her 
courtesy  and  smile,  "  and  you  must  now  do  me  a  small 
favor  if  you  can." 

"I  shall  be  most  happy,  sir.  Please  come  in,"  she 
answered. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can  not  at  this  moment,  as  I  have  an  en- 
gagement. Can  you  tell  me  where  Mr.  Polvvarth  of  the 
Park  Gate  lives  ?" 

The  girl's  smile  of  sweetness  changed  to  one  of 
amusement  as  she  repeated,  in  a  gentle  voice  through 
which  ran  a  thread  of  suffering, 

"Come  in,  sir,  please.  My  uncle's  name  is  Joseph 
Polwarth,  and  this  is  the  gate  to  Osterfield  Park. 
People  know  it  as  the  Park  Gate." 

The  house  was  not  one  of  those  trim  modern  park- 
lodges,  all  angles  and  peaks,  which  one  sees  everywhere 
nowadays,  but  a  low  cottage,  with  a  very  thick,  wig- 
like thatch,  into  which  rose  two  astonished  eyebrows 
over  the  stare  of  two  half-awake  dormer-windows.  On 
the  front  of  it  were  young  leaves  and  old  hips  enough 
to  show  that  in  summer  it  must  be  covered  with  roses. 

Wingfold  entered  at  once,  and  followed  her  through 
the  kitchen  upon  which  the  door  immediately  opened,  a 
bright  place,  with  stone  floor,  and  shining  things  on  the 
walls,  to  a  neat  little  parlor,  cosey  and  rather  dark,  with 


THE   PARK    GATE.  89 


a  small  window  to  the  garden  behind,  and  a  smell  of 
last  year's  roses. 

"  My  uncle  will  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,"  she  said, 
placing  a  chair  for  him.  "  I  would  have  had  a  fire  here, 
but  my  uncle  always  talks  better  amongst  his  books. 
He  expected  you,  but  my  lord's  steward  sent  for  him  up 
to  the  new  house." 

He  took  the  chair  she  offered  him,  and  sat  down  to 
wait.  He  had  not  much  of  the  gift  of  making  talk — a 
questionable  accomplishment, — and  he  never  could  ap- 
proach his  so-called  inferiors  but  as  his  equals,  the  fact 
being  that  in  their  presence  he  never  felt  any  difference. 
Notwithstanding  his  ignorance  of  the  lore  of  Christi- 
anity, Thomas  Wingfold  was,  in  regard  to  some  things, 
gifted  with  what  I  am  tempted  to  call  a  divine  stupidity. 
Many  of  the  distinctions  and  privileges  afterwhicL  men 
follow,  and  of  the  annoyances  and  slights  over  which 
they  fume,  were  to  the  curate  inappreciable  :  he  did  not 
and  could  not  see  them. 

"  So  you  are  warders  of  the  gate  here,  Miss  Pol- 
warth  .-*"  he  said,  assuming  that  to  be  her  name,  and 
rightly,  when  the  young  woman,  who  had  for  a  moment 
left  the  room,  returned. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  we  have  kept  it  now  for  about 
eight  years,  sir.  It  is  no  hard  task.  But  I  fancy  there 
will  be  a  little  more  to  do  when  the  house  is  finished." 

"  It  is  a  long  way  for  you  to  go  to  church." 

"  It  would  be,  sir  ;  but  I  do  not  go." 

"Your  uncle  does." 

"  Not  very  often,  sir." 


9©  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

She  left  the  door  open  and  kept  coming  and  going 
between  the  kitchen  and  the  parlor,  busy  about  house 
affairs.  Wingfold  sat  and  watched  her  as  he  had  oppor- 
tunity with  growing  interest. 

She  had  the  full-sized  head  that  is  so  often  set  on  a 
small  body,  and  it  looked  yet  larger  from  the  quantity 
of  rich  brown  hair  upon  it — hair  which  some  ladies 
would  have  given  their  income  to  possess.  Clearly  too 
it  gave  pleasure  to  its  owner,  for  it  was  becomingly  as 
well  as  carefully  and  modestly  dressed.  Her  face 
seemed  to  Wingfold  more  interesting  every  fresh  peep 
he  had  of  it,  until  at  last  he  pronounced  it  to  himself 
one  of  the  sweetest  he  had  ever  seen.  Its  prevailing 
expression  was  of  placidity,  and  something  that  was  not 
contentment  merely:  I  would  term  it  satisfaction,  were 
I  sure  that  my  reader  \vould  call  up  the  very  antipode 
of  self-  satisfaction.  And  yet  there  were  lines  of  past  and 
shadows  of  present  suffering  upon  it.  The  only  sign,  how- 
ever, that  her  poor  crooked  body  was  not  at  present  to- 
tally forgotten  was  a  slight  shy  undulation  that  now 
and  then  flickered  along  the  lines  of  her  sensitive 
mouth,  seeming  to  indicate  a  shadowy  dim-defined 
thought,  or  rather  feeling,  of  apology,  as  if  she  would 
disarm  prejudice  b)'  an  expression  of  sorrow  that  she 
could  not  help  the  pain  and  annoyance  her  unsightli- 
ness  must  occasion.  Every  feature  in  her  thin  face  was 
good,  and  seemed,  individually  almost,  to  speak  of  a 
loving  spirit,  yet  he  could  see  ground  for  suspecting 
that  keen  expressions  of  a  quick  temper  could  be  no 
strangers  upon  those  delicately-modelled  forms.     Her 


THE    PARK    GATE.  9I 


hands  and  feet  were  both  as  to  size  and  shape  those  of 
a  mere  child. 

He  was  still  studying  her  like  a  book  which  a  boy 
reads  by  stealth,  when  with  slow  step  her  uncle  entered 
the  room. 

Wingfold  rose  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  You  are  welcome,  sir,"  said  Polwarth  modestly,  witn 
the  strong  grasp  of  a  small  linn  hand.  "  Will  you  walk 
upstairs  with  me  where  we  shall  be  undisturbed.^  My 
niece  has,  1  hope,  already  made  my  apologies  for  not 
being  at  home  to  receive  you, — Rachel,  my  child,  will 
you  get  us  a  cup  of  tea,  and  by  the  time  it  is  ready  we 
shall  have  got  through  our  business,  I  dare  say." 

The  face  of  Wingfold's  host  and  new  friend  in  expres- 
sion a  good  deal  resembled  that  of  his  niece,  but  bore 
traces  of  yet  greater  sufT^ering — bodily,  and  it  might  be 
mental  as  well.  It  did  not  look  quite  old  enough  for 
the  whiteness  of  the  plentiful  hair  that  crowned  it,  and 
yet  there  was  that  in  it  which  might  account  for  the 
whiteness. 

His  voice  was  a  little  dry  and  husky,  streaked  as  it 
were  with  the  asthma  whose  sounds  made  that  big  dis- 
proportioned  chest  seem  like  the  cave  of  the  east  wind  ; 
but  it  had  a  tone  of  dignity  and  decision  in  it  quite  in 
harmony  with  both  matter  and  style  of  his  letter,  and 
before  Wingfold  had  followed  him  to  the  top  of  the 
steep  narrow  strait  staircase  all  sense  of  incongruity  in 
him  had  vanished  from  his  mind. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


THE    ATTIC. 


& 


^_^^|HE  little  man  led  the  way  into  a  tolerablj- 
^4  large  room,  with  down-sloping  ceiling  on 
both  sides,  lighted  by  a  small  windov/  in 
the  gable,  near  the  fireplace,  and  a  dor- 
mer window  as  well.  The  low  walls,  up  to  the  slope, 
were  filled  with  books  ;  books  lay  on  the  table,  on  the 
bed,  on  chairs,  and  in  corners  everywhere. 

"  Aha  !"  said  Wingfold,  as  he  entered  and  cast  his 
eyes  around,  "  there  is  no  room  for  surprise  that  you 
should  have  found  me  out  so  easily,  Mr.  Pohvarth  ! 
Here  you  have  a  legion  of  detectives  for  such  rascals." 

The  little  man  turned,  and  for  a  moment  looked  at 
him  with  a  doubtful  and  somewhat  pained  expression, 
as  if  he  had  not  been  prepared  for  such  an  entrance  on 
a  solemn  question  ;  but  a  moment's  reading  of  the  cu- 
rate's honest  face,  which  by  this  time  had  a  good  deal 
more  print  upon  it  than  would  have  been  found  there 
six  months  agone,  sufficed  ;  the  cloud  melted  into  a 
smile,  and  he  said  cordially, 


THE   ATTIC.  93 


"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  sir,  to  take  my  presumption 
in  such  good  part.  Pray  sit  down,  sir.  You  will  find 
triat  chair  a  comfortable  one." 

"  Presumption  !"  echoed  Wingfold.  "  The  presump- 
tion was  all  on  my  part,  and  the  kindness  on  yours.  But 
you  must  first  hear  my  explanation,  such  as  it  is.  It 
makes  the  matter  hardly  a  jot  the  better,  only  a  man 
would  not  willingly  look  worse,  or  better  either,  than  he 
is,  and  besides,  we  must  understand  each  other  if  we 
would  be  friends.  However  unlikely  it  may  seem  to 
you,  Mr.  Polwarth,  I  really  do  share  the  common  weak- 
ness of  wanting  to  be  taken  exactly  for  what  I  am,  nei- 
ther more  nor  less." 

"  It  is  a  noble  weakness,  and  far  enough  from  common, 
I  am  sorry  to  think,"  returned  Polwarth. 

The  curate  then  told  the  gate-keeper  of  his  uncle's 
legacy,  mid  his  own  ignorance  of  Jeremy  Taylor. 

"  But,"  he  concluded,  "  since  you  set  me  thinking 
about  it,  my  judgment  has  capsized  itself,  and  it  now 
seems  to  me  worse  to  use  my  uncle's  sermons  than  to 
have  used  the  bishop's,  which  any  one  might  discover 
to  be  what  the)'  are." 

"  I  see  no  harm  in  either,"  said  Polwarth,  "  provided 
only  it  be  above  board.  I  believe  some  clergymen 
think  the  only  evJ\  lies  in  detection.  I  doubt  if  they 
ever  escape  it,  ir.d  believe  the  amount  of  successful  de- 
ception in  tb:.t  kind  to  be  very  small  indeed.  Many  in  a 
congregation  cr^n  tell,  by  a  kind  of  instinct,  whether  a 
man  be  preaching  his  own  sermons  or  not.  But  the 
worst  evil  appears  to  me  to  lie  in  the  tacit  understand- 


94  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

ing  that  a  sermon  must  seem  to  be  a  man's  own,  although 
all  in  the  congregation  know,  and  the  would-be  preach- 
er knows  that  they  know,  that  it  is  none  of  his." 

"  Then  you  mean,  Mr.  Polwarth,  that  I  should  solemn- 
ly acquaint  my  congregation  next  Sunday  with  the  fact 
that  the  sermon  I  am  about  to  read  to  them  is  one  of 
many  left  me  by  my  worthy  uncle,  Jonah  Driftwood, 
D.D.,  who  on  his  deathbed  expressed  the  hope  that  I 
should  support  their  teaching  by  my  example,  for,  hav- 
ing gone  over  them  some  ten  or  fifteen  times  in  the 
course  of  his  incumbency,  and  bettered  each  every  time 
until  he  could  do  no  more  for  it,  he  did  not  think,  save 
by  my  example,  I  could  carry  further  the  enforcement 
of  the  truths  they  contained  :  shall  I  tell  them  all  that  ?" 

Polwarth  laughed,  but  with  a  certain  seriousness  in 
his  merriment,  which,  however,  took  nothing  from  its 
genuineness,  indeed  seemed  rather  to  add  thereto. 

"It  would  hardly  be  needful  to  enter  so  fully  into 
particulars,"  he  said.  "  It  would  be  enough  to  let  them 
know  that  you  wished  it  understood  between  them  and 
you  that  you  did  not  profess  to  teach  them  any  thing  of 
yourself,  but  merely  to  bring  to  bear  upon  them  the 
teaching  of  others.  It  would  raise  complaints  and  ob- 
jections, doubtless  ;  but  for  that  you  must  be  prepared 
7  if  you  would  do  anything  right." 

Wingfold  was  silent,  thoughtful,  saying  to  himself, 
"  How  straight  an  honest  bow  can  shoot ! — But  this  in- 
volves something  awful.  To  stand  up  in  that  pulpit 
and  speak  about  myself !  I  who,  even  if  I  had  any 
opinions,  could  never  see  reasons  for  presenting  them 


THE   ATTIC.  95 


to  other  people  !  It's  my  office,  is  it — not  ine  ?  Then  I 
wish  my  Office  would  write  his  own  sermons.  He  can 
read  the  prayers  well  enough  :" 

All  his  life,  a  little  heave  of  pent-up  humor  would 
now  and  then  shake  his  burden  into  a  more  comfortable 
position  upon  his  bending  shoulders.  He  gave  a  for- 
lorn laugh. 

"  But,"  resumed  the  small  man,  "  have  you  never 
preached  a  sermon  of  your  own  thinking — I  don't  mean 
of  your  own  making — one  that  came  out  of  the  com- 
mentaries, which  are,  I  am  told,  the  mines  whither  some 
of  our  most  noted  preachers  go  to  dig  for  their  first  in- 
spirations— but  one  that  came  out  of  your  own  heart — 
your  delight  in  something  you  had  found  out,  or  some- 
thing you  felt  much  ?" 

*'No,"  answered  Wingfold  ;  "I  have  nothing,  never 
had  any  thing  worth  giving  to  another  ;  and  it  would 
seem  to  me  very  unreasonable  to  subject  a  helpless  con- 
gregation to  the  blundering  attempts  of  such  a  fellow  to 
put  into  the  forms  of  reasonable  speech  things  he  really 
knows  nothing  about." 

"  You  must  know  about  some  things  which  it  might 
do  them  good  to  be  reminded  of—even  if  they  know 
them  already,"  said  Polwarth.  "  I  can  not  imagine  that 
a  man  who  looks  things  in  the  face  as  you  do  the  mo- 
ment they  confront  you,  has  not  lived  at  all,  has  never 
met  with  any  thing  in  his  history  which  has  taught  him 
something  other  people  need  to  be  taught.  I  profess 
myself  a  believer  in  preaching,  and  consider  that  in  so 
far  as  the  Church  of  England  has  ceased  to  be  a  preach- 


96  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


ing  church — and  I  don't  call  nine  tenths  of  what  goes 
by  the  name  of  it  preaching — she  has  forgotten  a  mighty 
part  of  her  high  calling.  Of  course  a  man  to  whom  no 
message  has  been  personally  given  has  no  right  to  take 
the  place  of  a  prophet,  and  can  not,  save  by  more  oi: 
less  of  simulation  ;  but  there  is  room  for  teachers  as 
well  as  prophets,  and  the  more  need  of  teachers  that 
the  prophets  are  so  few  ;  and  a  man  may  right  honestly 
be  a  clergyman  who  teaches  the  people,  though  he  may 
possess  none  of  the  gifts  of  prophecy." 

"  I  do  not  now  see  well  how  you  are  leading  me,"  said 
Wingfold,  considerably  astonished  at  both  the  aptness 
and  fluency  with  which  a  man  in  his  host's  position  was 
able  to  express  himself.  "  Pray,  what  do  you  mean  by 
prophecy  f 

"  I  mean  what  I  take  to  be  the  sense  in  which  St. 
Paul  uses  the  word — I  mean  the  highest  kind  of  preach- 
ing. But  I  will  come  to  the  point  practically  :  a  man,  I 
say,  who  does  not  feel  in  his  soul  that  he  has  something 
to  tell  his  people  should  straightway  turn  his  energy  to 
the  providing  of  such  food  for  them  as  he  finds  feeds 
himself.  In  other  words,  if  he  has  nothing  new  in  his 
own  treasure,  let  him  bring  something  old  out  of  an- 
other man's.  If  his  soul  is  unfed,  he  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  find  food  for  other  people,  and  has  no  busi- 
ness in  any  pulpit,  but  ought  to  betake  himself  to  some 
other  employment — whatever  he  may  have  been  predes- 
tined to — I  mean,  made  fit  for." 

"  Then  do  you  intend  that  a  man  should  make  up  his 
sermons  from  the  books  he  reads?" 


THE    ATTIC.  97 


"  Yes,  if  he  can  not  do  better.  But  then  I  would  have 
him  read — not  with  his  sermon  in  his  eye,  but  with  his 
people  in  his  heart.  Men  in  business  and  professions 
have  so  little  time  for  reading  or  thinking — and  idle 
people  have  still  less — that  their  means  of  grace,  as  the 
theologians  say,  are  confined  to  discipline  without  nou- 
rishment, whence  their  religion,  if  they  have  any,  is 
often  from  mere  atrophy  but  a  skeleton  ;  and  the  ofhce 
of  preaching  is,  first  of  all,  to  wake  them  up  lest  their 
sleep  turn  to  death  ;  next,  to  make  them  hungry,  and 
lastly  to  supply  that  hunger  ;  and  for  all  these  things 
the  pastor  has  to  take  thought.  If  he  feed  not  the  flock 
of  God,  then  is  he  an  hireling,  and  no  shepherd." 

At  this  moment  Rachel  entered  with  a  small  tea-tray: 
she  could  carry  only  little  things,  and  a  few  at  a  time. 
She  cast  a  glance  of  alm.ost  loving  solicitude  at  the 
young  man  who  now  sat  before  her  uncle  with  head 
bowed  and  self-abasement  on  his  honest  countenance, 
then  a  look  of  almost  expostulation  at  her  uncle,  as  if 
interceding  for  a  culprit,  and  begging  the  master  not  to 
be  too  hard  upon  him.  But  the  little  man  smiled — such 
a  sweet  smile  of  reassurance  that  her  face  returned  at 
once  to  its  prevailing  expression  of  content.  She 
cleared  a  place  on  the  table,  set  down  her  tray,  and 
went  to  bring  cups  and  saucers. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


POLWARTH     S      PLAN. 


THINK  I  understand  you  now,"  said  Wing- 
fold,  after  the  little  pause  occasioned  by  the 
young  woman's  entrance:  "You  would 
have  a  man  who  can  not  be  original,  deal 
honestly  in  second-hand  goods.  Or  perhaps,  rather, 
he  should  say  to  the  congregation,  '  This  is  not  home- 
made bread  I  offer  you,  but  something  better.  I  got 
it  from  this  or  that  baker's  shop.  I  have  eaten  of  it 
myself,  and  it  has  agreed  well  with  me  and  done  me 
good.  If  you  chew  it  well,  I  don't  doubt  you  also  will 
find  it  good.' — Is  that  something  like  what  j'-ou  would 
have,  Mr.  Polwarth  }" 

"  Precisely, "  answered  the  gate-keeper.  "But,"  he 
added,  after  a  moment's  delay,  "  I  should  be  sorry  if 
you  stopped  there." 

"  Stopped  there  !"  echoed  Wingfold.  "  The  question 
is  whether  I  can  begin  there.  You  have  no  idea  how 
ignorant  I  am — how  little  I  have  read  !" 

"  I  have  some  idea  of  both,   I  fancy.     I  must  have 


POLWARTH  S   PLAN.  99 


known  considerably  less  than  you  at  your  age,  for  I  was 
never  at  a  university." 

"  But  perhaps  even  then  you  had  more  of  the  know- 
ledge which,  they  say,  life  only  can  give." 

"  I  have  it  now,  at  all  events.  But  of  that  every  one 
has  enough  who  lives  his  life.  Those  who  gain  no  ex- 
perience are  those  who  shirk  the  king's  highway  for 
fear  of  encountering  the  Duty  seated  by  the  roadside." 

"You  ought  to  be  a  clergyman  yourself,  sir,"  said 
Wingfold,  humbly.     "  How  is  it  that  such  as  I — " 

Here  he  checked  himself,  knowing  something  of  how 
it  was. 

"  I  hope  I  ought  to  be  just  what  I  am,  neither  more 
nor  less,"  replied  Polwarth.  "  As  to  being  a  clergyman, 
Moses  had  a  better  idea  about  such  things,  at  least  so 
far  as  concerns  outsides,  than  you  seem  to  have,  Mr. 
Wingfold.  He  would  never  have  let  a  man  who 
in  size  and  shape  is  a  mere  mockery  of  the  human 
stand  up  to  minister  to  the  congregation.  But  if  you 
will  let  me  help  you,  I  shall  be  most  grateful ;  for  of  late 
I  have  been  oppressed  with  the  thought  that  I  serve  no 
one  but  myself  and  my  niece.  I  am  in  mortal  fear  of 
growing  selfish  under  the  weight  of  my  privileges." 

A  fit  of  asthmatic  coughing  seized  him,  and  grew  in 
severity  until  he  seemed  struggling  for  his  life.  It  was 
at  the  worst  when  his  niece  entered,  but  she  showed  no 
alarm,  only  concern,  and  did  nothing  but  go  up  to  him 
and  lay  her  hand  on  his  back  between  his  shoulders  till 
the  fit  was  over.  The  instant  the  convulsion  ceased,  its 
pain  dissolved  in  a  smile. 


lOO  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Wingfold  uttered  some  lame  expressions  of  regret 
that  he  should  suffer  so  much. 

"  It  is  really  nothing  to  distress  you,  or  me  either, 
Mr.  Wingfold,"  said  the  little  man.  "Shall  we  have  a 
cup  of  tea,  and  then  resume  our  talk  ?" 

"  The  fact,  I  find,  Mr.  Polwarth,"  said  the  curate,  giv- 
ing the  result  of  what  had  been  passing  through  his 
mind,  and  too  absorbed  in  that  to  reply  to  the  invita- 
tion, "  is  that  I  must  not,  and  indeed  can  not,  give  you 
half-confidences.  I  will  tell  you  all  that  troubles  me, 
for  it  is  plain  that  you  know  something  of  which  I  am 
ignorant — something  which,  I  have  great  hopes,  will 
turn  out  to  be  the  very  thing  I  need  to  know.  May  I 
speak  ?     Will  you  let  me  talk  about  myself  T' 

"  I  am  entirely  at  your  service,  Mr.  Wingfold,"  re- 
turned Polwarth  ;  and  seeing  the  curate  did  not  touch 
his  tea,  placed  his  own  cup  again  on  the  table. 

The  young  woman  got  down  like  a  chila  from  the 
chair  upon  which  she  had  perched  herself  at  the  table, 
and,  with  a  kind  look  at  Wingfold,  was  about  to  leave 
the  room. 

"  No,  no,  Miss  Polwarth  !"  said  the  curate,  rising ;  "  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  go  on  if  I  feel  that  I  have  sent  you 
away — and  your  tea  untouched  too  !  What  a  selfish  and 
ungrateful  fellow  I  am  !  I  did  not  even  observe  that 
you  had  given  me  tea!  But  you  would  pardon  me  if 
you  knew  what  I  have  been  going  through.  If  you 
don't  mind  staying,  we  can  talk  and  drink  our  tea  at  the 
same  time.     I  am  very  fond  of  tea  when  it  is  so  good 


POLWARTH  S    PLAN. 


as  I  see  yours  is.  I  only  fear  I  may  have  to  say  some 
things  that  will  shock  you." 

"  I  will  stay  till  then,"  replied  Rachel,  with  a  smile, 
and  climbed  again  upon  her  chair.  "  I  am  not  much 
afraid.  My  uncle  says  things  sometimes  fit  to  make  a 
Pharisee's  hair  stand  on  his  head,  but  somehow  they 
make  my  heart  burn  inside  me. — May  I  stop,  uncle  ?  I 
should  like  so  much  !" 

"  Certainly,  my  child,  if  Mr.  Wingfold  will  not  feel 
your  presence  a  restraint." 

"  Not  in  the  least,''  said  the  curate. 

Miss  Polwarth  helped  them  to  bread  and  butter,  and 
a  brief  silence  followed. 

"  I  was  brought  up  to  the  church,''  said  Wingfold  at 
length,  playing  with  his  teaspoon,  and  looking  down  on 
the  table.  "  It's  an  awful  shame  such  a  thing  should 
have  been,  but  I  don't  find  out  that  anybody  in  particu- 
"ar  was  to  blame  for  it.  Things  are  all  wrong  that  way, 
in  general.  I  doubt.  I  pass  my  examinations  with  de- 
cency, distinguish  myself  in  nothing,  go  before  the 
bishop,  am  admitted  a  deacon,  after  a  year  am  ordained  a 
priest,  and  after  another  year  or  two  of  false  preaching 
and  of  parish  work,  suddenly  find  myself  curate  in 
charge  of  a  grand  old  abbey  church  ;  but  as  to  what  the 
whole  thing  means  m  practical  relation  with  myself  as 
a  human  being,  I  am  as  ignorant  as  Simon  Magus,  with- 
out his  excuse.  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  think  I  could 
stand  an  examination  on  the  doctrines  of  the  church 
as  contained  in  the  articles  and  prayer-book  generally. 


[.07.  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


But  for  all  they  have  done  for  me  I  might  as  well  have 
never  heard  of  them." 

"  Don't  be  quite  sure  of  that,  Mr.  Wingfold.  At  least 
they  have  brought  you  to  inquire  if  there  be  any  thing 
in  them." 

"  Mr.  Polvvarth,"  returned  Wingfold  abruptly,  "  I  can 
not  even  prove  there  is  a  God  !" 

"  But  the  Church  of  England  exists  for  the  sake  of 
teaching  Christianity,  not  proving  that  there  is  a  God.'' 

"  What  is  Christianity,  then  ?" 

"  God  in  Christ,  and  Christ  in  man." 

♦'  What  is  the  use  of  that  if  there  be  no  Goci .?" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Mr.  Polwarth,  can  you  prove  there  is  a  God  T' 

"No." 

"Then  if  you  don't  believe  there  is  a  God — I  don't 
know  what  is  to  become  of  me,"  said  the  curate,  in  a 
tone  of  deep  disappointment,  and  rose  to  go. 

"  Mr.  Wingfold,"  said  the  little  man,  with  a  smile  and 
a  deep  breath  as  of  delight  at  the  thought  that  was 
moving  him,  "  I  know  him  in  my  heart,  and  he  is  all  in 
all  to  me.  You  did  not  ask  whether  I  believed  in  him, 
but  whether  I  could  prove  that  there  was  a  God.  As 
well  ask  a  fly  which  has  not  yet  crawled  about  the 
world  if  he  can  prove  that  it  is  round  !" 

"  Pardon  me,  and  have  patience  with  me,"  said  Wing- 
fold, resuming  his  seat.  "  I  am  a  fool.  Bat  it  is  life  or 
death  to  me." 

"  I  would  we  were  all  such  fools  !  But  please  ask  me 
no  more  questions ;  or  ask  me  as  many  as  you  will,  but 


polwarth's  plan.  103 

expect  no  answers  just  yet.  I  want  to  know  more  of 
your  mind  first." 

."  Well,  I  will  ask  questions,  but  press  for  no  answers. 
If  you  can  not  prove  there  is  a  God,  do  you  know  for 
certain  that  such  a  one  as  Jesus  Christ  ever  lived  ?  Can 
it  be  proved  with  positive  certainty  ?  I  say  nothing  of 
what  they  call  the  doctrines  of  Christianity,  or  the  au- 
thority of  the  church,  or  the  sacraments,  or  any  thing  of 
that  sort.  Such  questions  are  at  present  of  no  interest 
to  me.  And  yet  the  fact  that  they  do  not  interest  me 
were  enough  to  prove  me  in  as  false  and  despicable  a 
position  as  ever  man  found  himself  occupying — as  ar- 
rant a  hypocrite  and  deceiver  as  any  god-personating 
priest  in  the  Delphic  temple.  I  had  rather  a  man  de- 
spised than  excused  me,  Mr.  Polwarth,  for  I  am  at  issue 
with  myself,  and  love  not  my  past." 

"  I  shall  do  neither,  Mr.  Wingfold.  Go  on,  if  you 
please,  sir.  1  am  more  deeply  interested  than  I  can  tell 
you." 

"  Some  few  months  ago,  then,  I  met  a  young  man  who 
takes  for  granted  the  opposite  of  all  that  I  had  up  to 
that  time  taken  for  granted,  and  which  now  I  want  to 
be  able  to  prove.  He  spoke  with  contempt  of  my  pro- 
fession. I  could  not  defend  my  profession,  and  of 
course  had  to  despise  myself.  I  began  to  think.  I  be- 
gan to  pray — if  you  will  excuse  me  for  mentioning  it. 
My  whole  past  life  appeared  like  the  figures  that  glidj 
over  the  field  of  a  camera-obscura — not  an  abiding  fact 
in  it  all.  A  cloud  gathered  about  me,  and  hangs  about 
me  still.     I  call,  but  no  voice  answers  mc  out  of  the 


I04  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


darkness,  and  at  times  I  am  in  despair.  I  would,  for 
the  love  and  peace  of  honesty,  give  up  the  profession, 
but  I  shrink  from  forsaking  what  I  may  yet  possibjy 
find — though  I  fear,  I  fear — to  be  as  true  as  I  wish  to 
find  it.  Something,  I  know  not  what,  holds  me  to  it — 
some  dim  vague  affection,  possibly  mere  prejudice,  aid- 
ed by  a  love  for  music  and  the  other  sweet  sounds  of 
our  prayers  and  responses.  Nor  would  I  willingly  be 
supposed  to  deny  what  I  dare  not  say — indeed  know 
not  how  to  say  I  believe,  not  knowing  what  it  is.  I 
should  nevertheless  have  abandoned  every  thing  months 
ago,  had  I  not  felt  bound  by  my  agreement  to  serve  my 
rectory  for  a  year.  You  are  the  only  one  of  the  congre- 
gation who  has  shown  me  any  humanity,  and  I  beg  of 
you  to  be  my  friend  and  help  me.  What  shall  I  do  } 
After  the  avowal  you  have  made,  I  may  well  ask  3'ou 
again,  How  am  I  to  know  that  there  is  a  God  }" 

"  It  were  a  more  pertinent  question,  sir,"  returned 
Polwarth, — '•  If  there  be  a  God,  how  am  I  to  find  him  ? 
And,  as  I  hinted  before,  there  is  another  question — 
one  you  have  already  put — more  pertinent  to  your  posi- 
tion as  an  English  clergyman  :  Was  there  ever  such  a 
man  as  Jesus  Christ? — Those,  I  think,  were  your  own 
words :  what  do  you  mean  by  such  a  man  }" 

"  Such  as  he  is  represented  in  the  New  Testament." 

"  From  that  representation,  what  description  w(^uld 
you  give  of  him  now  }  What  is  that  such  ?  What  sort  of 
person,  supposing  the  story  true,  would  you  take  this 
Jesus  from  that  story  to  have  been  }" 

Wingfold  thought  for  a  while. 


POLWARTH  S    PLAN.  I05 

"  I  am  a  worse  humbug  than  I  fancied,"  he  said.  "  I 
can  not  tell  what  he  was.  My  thoughts  of  him  are  so 
vague  and  indistinct  that  it  would  take  me  a  long  time 
to  render  myself  able  to  answer  your  question." 

"  Perhaps  longer  still  than  you  think,  sir.  It  took 
me  a  very  long  time." 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

JOSEPH    POLWARTH. 

HAL-L  I  tell  you,"  the  gate-keeper  went  on, 
"  something  of  my  life,  in  return  of  the  con- 
fidence you  have  honored  me  with  ?" 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  to  my  mind,"  an- 
swered Wingfold.  "And  I  trust,  "he  added,  "it  is  no 
unworthy  curiosity  that  makes  me  anxious  to  under- 
stand how  you  have  come  to  know  so  much." 

"  Indeed  it  is  not  that  I  know  much,"  said  the  little 
man.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  am  the  most  ignorant  person 
of  my  acquaintance.  You  would  be  astonished  to  dis- 
cover what  I  don't  know.  But  the  thing  is  that  I  know 
what  is  worth  knowing.  Yet  I  get  not  a  crumb  more 
than  my  daily  bread  by  it — I  mean  the  bread  by  which 
the  inner  man  lives.  The  man  who  gives  himself  to 
■  making  money  will  seldom  fail  of  becoming  a  rich 
*  man  ;  and  it  would  be  hard  if  a  man  who  gave  him- 
self to  find  wherewithal  to  still  the  deepest  crav- 
ings of  his  best  self  should  not  be  able  to  find  that 
bread  of  life.  I  tried  to  make  a  little  money  by  book- 
selling  once  :  I    failed  —ncjt   to  pay  my   debts,   but   to 


JOSEPH    POLWARTH.  I07 

make  the  money  ;  I  could  not  go  into  it  heartily,  or 
give  it  thought  enough,  so  it  was  all  right  I  should  not 
,  succeed  ;  but  what  I  did  and  do  make  my  object  does 
not  disappoint  me. 

"  My  ancestors,  as  my  name  indicates,  were  of  and  in 
Cornwall,  where  they  held  large  propert)^  Forgive  the 
seeming  boast — it  is  but  fact,  and  can  reflect  little 
enough  on  one  like  me.  Scorn  and  pain  mingled  with 
mighty  hope  is  a  grand  prescription  for  weaning  the 
heart  from  the  judgments  and  aspirations  of  this  world. 
Later  ancestors  were,  not  many  generations  ago,  the 
proprietors  of  this  very  property  of  Osterfield,  which 
the  uncle  of  the  present  Lord  de  Barre  bought,  and  to 
which  I,  their  descendant,  am  gate-keeper.  What  with 
gambling,  drinking,  and  worse,  they  deserved  to  lose  it. 
The  results  of  their  lawlessness  are  ours  :  we  are  what 
and  where  you  see  us.  With  the  inherited  poison,  the 
Father  gave  the  antidote.  Rachel,  my  child,  am  I  not 
right  when  I  say  that  you  thank  God  with  me  for  hav- 
ing thus  visited  the  iniquities  of  the  fathers  upon  the 
children  ?" 

"  I  do,  uncle  ;  you  know  I  do — from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,"  replied  Rachel  in  a  low  tender  voice. 

A  great  solemnity  came  upon  the  spirit  of  Wingfold, 

'  and  for  a  moment  he  felt  as  if  he  sat  wrapt  in  a  cloud  of 

sacred  marvel,  beyond  and  around  which   lay  a  gulf  of 

music  too  perfect  to  touch  his  sense.     But  presently 

Polwarth  resumed  : 

"  My  father  was  in  appearance  a  remarkably  fine  man, 
tall  and  stately.     Of  him  I  have  lit-Me  to  say.     If  he  did 


Io8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

not  do  well,  my  grandfather  must  be  censured  first. 
He  had  a  sister  very  Hke  Rachel  here.  Poor  aunt  Lot- 
tie !  She  was  not  so  happy  as  my  little  one.  My  bro- 
thers were  all  fine  men  like  himself,  yet  they  all  died 
young  except  my  brother  Robert.  He  too  is  dead  now, 
thank  God,  and  I  trust  he  is  in  peace,  I  had  almost  be- 
gun to  fear  with  himself  that  he  would  never  die.  And 
yet  he  was  but  fifty.  He  left  me  my  Rachel  with  her 
twenty  pounds  a  year.  I  have  thirty  of  my  own,  and 
this  cottage  we  have  rent-free  for  attending  to  the  gate. 
I  shall  tell  you  more  about  my  brother  some  day. 
There  are  none  of  the  family  left  now  but  myself  and 
Rachel.     God  in  his  mercy  is  about  to  let  it  cease. 

"  I  was  sent  to  one  of  our  smaller  public  schools — 
mainly,  I  believe,  because  1  was  an  eyesore  to  my  hand- 
some father.  There  I  made,  I  fancy,  about  as  good  a  be- 
ginning as  wretched  health  and  the  miseries  of  a  sensi- 
tive nature,  ever  conscious  of  exposure,  without  mother 
or  home  to  hide  its  feebleness  and  deformity,  would 
permit.  For  then  first  I  felt  myself  an  outcast.  I  was 
the  butt  of  all  the  coarser-minded  of  my  school-fellows, 
and  the  kindness  of  some  could  but  partially  make  up 
for  it.  On  the  other  hand,  I  had  no  haunting  and  irri- 
tating sense  of  wrong,  such  as  I  believe  not  a  few  of  my 
fellows  in  dfeformity  feel — no  burning  indignation,  or 
fierce  impulse  to  retaliate  on  those  who  injured  me  or 
on  the  society  that  scorned  me.  The  isolation  that  be- 
longed to  my  condition  wrought  indeed  to  the  intensi- 
fying of  my  individuality,  but  that  again  intensified  my 
consciousness  of  need  more  than  wrong,  until  the  pas- 


JOSEPH    POLWARTH.  I09 

sion  blossomed  almost  into  assurance,  and  at  length  I 
sought  even  with  agony  the  aid  to  which  my  wretched- 
ness seemed  to  have  a  right.  My  longing  was  mainly 
for  a  refuge,  for  some  corner  into  which  I  might  creep, 
where  I  should  be  concealed,  and  so  at  rest.  The  sole 
triumph  I  coveted  over  my  persecutors  was  to  know 
that  they  could  not  find  me — that  I  had  a  friend  stronger 
than  they.  It  is  no  wonder  I  should  not  remember  when 
I  began  to  pray,  and  hope  that  God  heard  me.  I  used 
to  fancy  to  myself  that  I  lay  in  his  hand  and  peeped 
through  his  fingers  at  my  foes.  That  was  at  night,  for 
my  deformity  brought  me  one  blessed  comfort — that  I 
had  no  bed-fellow.  This  I  felt  at  first  as  both  a  sad  de- 
privation and  a  painful  rejection,  but  I  learned  to  pray 
the  sooner  for  the  loneliness,  and  the  heartier  from  the 
solitude  which  was  as  a  chamber  with  closed  door. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  1  might  have  taken  to  had  I 
been  made  like  other  people,  or  what  plans  my  mother 
cherished  for  me.  But  it  soon  became  evident,  as  time 
passed  and  I  grew  no  taller  but  more  misshapen,  that 
to  bring  me  up  to  a  profession  would  be  but  to  render  my 
deformity  the  more  painful  to  myself.  I  spent,  therefore, 
the  first  few  years  after  I  left  school  at  home,  keeping 
out  of  m)'-  father's  way  as  much  as  possible,  and  cleav- 
ing fast  to  my  mother.  When  she  died,  she  left  her  lit- 
tle property  between  me  and  my  brother.  He  had  been 
brought  up  to  my  father's  profession — that  of  an  engi- 
neer. My  father  could  not  touch  the  principal  of  this 
money,  but  neither,  while  he  lived,  could  we  the  inte- 
rest.    I  hardly  know  how  I  lived  for  the  next  three  or 


no  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

four  years — it  must  have  been  almost  on  charity,  I 
think.  My  father  was  never  at  home,  and  but  for  the 
old  woman  who  had  been  our  only  attendant  all  my  life,  I 
think  very  likely  I  should  have  starved.  I  spent  my 
time  mostly  in  reading — whatever  I  could  lay  my  hands 
upon — and  that  not  carelessly,  but  with  such  reflection 
as  I  was  capable  of.  One  thing  I  may  mention,  as 
showing  how  I  was  still  carried  in  the  same  direction  as 
before — that,  without  any  natural  turn  for  handicraft,  I 
constructed  for  myself  a  secret  place  of  carpenter's 
work  in  a  corner  of  the  garret,  small  indeed,  but  big 
enough  for  a  couch  on  which  I  could  lie,  and  a  table  as 
long  as  the  couch.  That  was  all  the  furniture.  The 
walls  were  lined  from  top  to  bottom  with  books,  mostly 
gathered  from  those  lying  about  the  house.  Cunningly 
was  the  entrance  to  this  nest  contrived  :  I  doubt  if  any 
one  may  have  found  it  yet.  If  some  imaginative  dreamy 
boy  has  come  upon  it,  what  a  find  it  must  have  been  to 
him  !  I  could  envy  him  the  pleasure.  There  I  always 
went  to  say  my  prayers  and  read  my  Bible.  But  some- 
times The  Arabian  Nights,  or  some  other  book  of  en- 
trancing human  invention,  would  come  between,  and 
make  me  neglect  both,  and  then  I  would  feel  bad  and 
forsaken  ;  for  as  yet  I  knew  little  of  the  Heart  to  which 
I  cried  for  shelter  and  warmth  and  defence. 

"  Somewhere  in  this  time,  at  length,  I  began  to  feel 
dissatisfied,  even  displeased  with  myself.  At  first  the 
feeling  was  vague,  altogether  undefined — a  mere  sense 
that  I  did  not  fit  into  things,  that  I  was  not  what  I 
ought  to  be,  what  was  somehow  and  by  the  Authority 


JOSEPH    POLWARTH.  Ill 

required  of  me.  This  went  on,  began  to  gather  roots 
rather  than  send  them  out,  grew  towards  something 
more  definite.  I  began  to  be  aware  that,  heavy  afflic- 
tion as  it  was  to  be  made  so  different  from  my  fellows, 
my  outward  deformity  was  but  a  picture  of  my  inward 
condition.  There  nothing  was  right.  Many  thmgs 
which  in  theory  I  condemned,  and  in  others  despised, 
were  yet  a  part  of  myself,  or,  at  best,  part  of  an  evil  dis- 
ease cleaving  fast  unto  me.  I  found  myself  envious  and 
revengeful  and  conceited.  I  discovered  that  I  looked 
down  on  people  whom  I  thought  less  clever  than  my- 
self. Once  I  caught  myself  scorning  a  young  fellow  to 
whose  disadvantage  I  knew  nothing,  except  that  God 
had  made  him  handsome  enough  for  a  woman.  All  at 
once  one  day,  with  a  sickening  conviction  it  came  upon 
me — with  one  of  those  sudden  slackenings  of  the  cord 
of  self-consciousness,  in  which  it  doubles  back  quiver- 
ing, and  seems  to  break,  while  the  man  for  an  instant 
beholds  his  individuality  apart  from  himself,  is  general- 
ly frightened  at  it,  and  always  disgusted — a  strange  and 
indeed  awful  experience,  which  if  it  lasted  longer  than 
its  allotted  moment,  might  well  drive  a  man  mad  who 
had  no  God  to  whom  to  ofier  back  his  individuality,  in 
appeal  against  his  double  consciousness — it  was  in  one 
of  these  cataleptic  fits  of  the  spirit,  I  say.  that  I  first  saw 
plainly  what  a  contemptible  little  wretch  I  was,  and 
writhed  in  the  bright  agony  of  conscious  worthlessness. 
"  I  now  concluded  that  I  had  been  nothing  but  a  Pha- 
risee and  a  hypocrite,  praying  with  a  bad  heart,  and  that 
God  saw  me  just  as  detestable  as  I  saw  myself,  and  de- 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


spised  me  and  was  angry  with  me.  I  read  my  Bible 
more  diligently  than  ever  for  a  time,  found  in  it  nothing 
but  denunciation  and  wrath,  and  soon  dropped  it  in  de- 
spair.    I  had  already  ceased  to  pray. 

"  One  day  a  little  boy  mocked  me.  T  flew  into  a  rage, 
and,  rendered  by  passion  for  the  moment  fleet  and 
str®ng,  pursued  and  caught  him.  Whatever  may  be  a 
man's  condition  of  defence  against  evil,  I  have  learned 
that  he  can  not  keep  the  good  out  of  him.  When  the 
boy  found  himself  in  my  clutches,  he  turned  on  me  a 
look  of  such  terror  that  it  disarmed  me  at  once,  and, 
confounded  and  distressed  to  see  a  human  being  in  such 
abject  fear,  a  state  which  in  my  own  experience  I  knew 
to  be  horrible,  ashamed  also  that  it  should  be  before  such 
a  one  as  myself,  I  would  have  let  him  go  instantly,  but 
that  I  could  not  without  having  comforted  him.  But 
not  a  word  of  mine  could  get  into  his  ears,  and  I  saw  at 
length  that  he  was  so  ^r^-possessed,  that  every  tone  of 
kindness  I  uttered,  sounded  to  him  a  threat:  nothinsf 
would  do  but  let  him  go.  The  moment  he  found  him- 
self free,  he  fled  headlong  into  the  pond,  got  out  again, 
ran  home,  and  told,  with  perfect  truthfulness  I  believe, 
though  absolute  inaccuracy,  that  I  threw  him  in.  After 
this  I  tried  to  govern  my  temper,  but  found  that  the 
more  I  tried,  the  more  even  that  I  succeeded  outwardly, 
that  is,  succeeded  in  suppressing  the  signs  and  deeds  of 
wrath,  the  less  could  I  keep  down  the  wrath  in  my  soul. 
I  then  tried  never  to  think  about  myself  at  all,  and  read 
and  read — not  the  Bible — more  and  more  in  order  to 
forget  myself.     But  ever  through  all   my  reading  and 


JOSEPH   POLWARTH.  II3 


thinking  I  was  aware  of  the  lack  of  harmony  at  the 
heart  of  me  :  I  was  not  that  which  it  was  well  to  be  ;  I 
was  not  at  peace  ;  I  lacked  ;  I  was  distorted  ;  I  was  sick. 
Such  were  my  feelings,  not  my  reflections.  All  that  time 
is  as  the  memory  of  an  unlovely  dream — a  dream  of 
confusion  and  pain. 

"  One  evening,  in  the  twilight,  I  lay  alone  in  my  little 
den,  not  thinking,  but  with  mind  surrendered  and  pas- 
sive to  what  might  come  into  it.  It  was  very  hot — in- 
deed sultry.  My  little  skylight  was  open,  but  not  a 
breath  of  air  entered.  What  preceded  I  do  not  know, 
but  the  face  of  the  terrified  boy  rose  before  me,  or  in  me 
rather,  and  all  at  once  I  found  myself,  eagerly,  painfully, 
at  length  almost  in  an  agony,  persuading  him  that  I 
would  not  hurt  him,  but  meant  well  and  f  riendlily  towards 
him.  Again  I  had  just  let  him,go  in  despair,  when  the 
sweetest,  gentlest,  most  refreshing  little  waft  of  air 
came  in  at  the  window  and  just  went  being,  hardly  mov- 
ing, over  my  forehead.  Its  greeting  was  more  delicate 
than  even  my  mother's  kiss,  and  yet  it  cooled  my  whole 
body.  Now  whatever,  or  whencesoever  the  link,  if  any 
be  supposed  needful  to  account  for  the  fact,  it  kept  below 
in  the  secret  places  of  the  springs,  for  I  saw  it  not ;  but 
the  next  thought  of  which  I  was  aware  was,  What  if  I 
misunderstood  God  the  same  way  the  boy  had  mis- 
understood me  !  and  the  next  thing  was  to  take  my  New 
Testament  from  the  shelf  on  which  I  had  laid  it  aside. 

"  Another  evening  of  that  same  summer,  I  said  to  my- 
self that  I  would  begin  at  the  beginning  and  read  it 
through.      I  had  no    definite  idea   in   the  resolve ;    it 


114  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


seemed  a  good  thing  to  do,  and  I  would  do  it.  It  would 
serve  towards  keeping  up  my  connection  in  a  way  with 
things  above.  I  began,  but  did  not  that  night  get 
through  the  first  chapter  of  St.  Matthew.  Conscien- 
tiously I  read  every  word  of  the  genealogy,  but  when  I 
came  to  the  twenty-third  verse  and  read,  'Thou  shalt 
call  his  name  jESUS;  for  he  shall  save  his  people 
from  their  sins,'  I  fell  on  my  knees.  No  system 
of  theology  had  come  between  me  and  a  common-sense 
reading  of  the  book.  I  did  not  for  a  moment  imagine 
that  to  be  saved  from  my  sins  meant  to  be  saved  from 
the  punishment  of  them.  That  would  have  been  no 
glad  tidings  to  me.  My  sinfulness  was  ever  before  me, 
and  often  my  sins  too,  and  I  loved  them  not,  yet  could 
not  free  myself  of  them.  They  were  in  me  and  of  me, 
and  how  was  I  to  part  myself  from  that  which  came  to 
me  with  my  consciousness,  which  asserted  itself  in  me 
as  one  with  my  consciousness  }  I  could  not  get  be- 
hind  myself  so  as  to  reach  its  root.  But  here  was 
news  of  one  who  came  from  behind  that  root  itself  to 
deliver  me  from  that  in  me  which  made  being  a  bad 
thing  !  Ah  !  Mr.  Wingfold,  what  if,  after  all  the  dis- 
coveries made,  and  all  the  theories  set  up  and  pulled 
down,  amid  all  the  commonplaces  men  call  common 
sense,  notwithstanding  all  the  overpowering  and  ex- 
cluding self-assertion  of  things  that  are  seen,  ever  cry- 
ing, '  Here  we  are,  and  save  us  there  is  nothing  :  the 
Unseen  is  the  Unreal  !' — what  if,  I  say,  notwithstanding 
all  this,  it  should  yet  be  that  the  strongest  weapon  a 
man  can  wield  is  prayer  to  one  who  made  him  !    What 


JOSEPH    POLWARTH.  II5 

if  the  man  who  Hfts  up  his  heart  to  the  unknown  God 
even,  be  entering,  amid  the  mockery  of  men  who  wor- 
ship wliat  they  call  natural  law  and  science,  into  the  re- 
gion whence  issues  every  law,  and  where  the  ver^ 
material  of  science  is  born  ! 

"To  tell  you  all  that  followed,  if  I  could  recall  and 
narrate  it  in  order,  would  take  hours.  Suffice  it  that 
from  that  moment  I  was  a  student,  a  disciple.  Soon  to 
me  also  came  then  the  two  questions  :  How  do  I  know 
that  there  is  a  God  at  all?  and  How  am  I  to  know  that 
such  a  man  as  Jesus  ever  lived?  I  could  answer  neither. 
But  in  the  mean  time  I  was  reading  the  story — was 
drawn  to  the  Man  there  presented,  and  was  trying  to 
understand  his  being,  and  character,  and  principles  of 
life  and  action.  And,  to  sum  all  in  a  word,  many 
months  had  not  passed  ere  I  had  forgotten  to  seek  an 
answer  to  either  question  :  they  were  in  fact  questions 
no  longer  :  I  had  seen  the  man  Jesus  Christ,  and  in  hiin 
had  known  the  Father  of  him  and  of  me.  My  dear  sir, 
no  conviction  can  be  got,  or  if  it  could  be  got,  would  be 
of  any  sufficing  value,  through  that  dealer  in  second- 
hand goods,  the  intellect.  If  bj  it  we  could  prove  there 
is  a  God,  it  would  be  of  small  avail  indeed  :  we  must  see 
him  and  know  him,  to  know  that  he  was  not  a  denu^r. 
But  I  know  no  other  way  of  knowing  that  there  is  a 
God  but  that  .which  reveals  what  he  is — the  only  idea 
that  could  be  God — shows  him  in  his  own  self-proving 
existence — and  that  way  is  Jesus  Christ  as  he  revealed 
himself  on  earth,  and  as  he  is  revealed  afresh  to  every 
heart  that  seeks  to  know  the  truth  concerning  him." 


Il6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

A  pause  followed — a  solemn  one — and  then  again  Pol- 
warth  spoke. 

"  Either  the  whole  frame  of  existence,"  he  said,  "  is  a 
wretched,  miserable  unfitness,  a  chaos  with  dreams  of  a 
world,  a  chaos  in  which  the  higher  is  forever  subject  to 
the  lower,  or  it  is  an  embodied  idea  growing  towards 
perfection  in  him  who  is  the  one  perfect  creative  Idea, 
the  Father  of  lights,  who  suffers  himself  that  he  may- 
bring  his  many  sons  into  the  glory  which  is  his  own 
glory." 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


THE   CONCLUSION    OF   THE   WHOLE   MATTER. 


UT,"  said  Wingfold,  " — only  pray  do  not  think 
I  am  opposing  you  ;  I  am  in  the  straits  you 
have  left  so  far  behind— how  am  I  to  know 
that  I  should  not  merely  have  wrought  my- 
self up  to  the  believing  of  that  which  I  should  like  to  be 
true?" 

"Leave  that  question,  my  dear  sir,  until  you  know 
what  that  really  is  which  you  want  to  believe.  I  do  not 
imagine  that  you  have  yet  more  than  the  merest  glim- 
mer of  the  nature  of  that  concerning  which  you,  for 
the  very  reason  that  you  know  not  what  .it  is,  most  ra- 
tionally doubt.  Is  a  man  to  refuse  to  withdraw  his 
curtains  lest  some  flash  in  his  own  eyes  should  deceive 
him  with  a  vision  of  morning  while  yet  it  is  night  ?  The 
truth  to  the  soul  is  as  light  to  the  eyes  :  you  may  be 
deceived,  and  mistake  something  else  for  light,  but  you 
can  never  fail  to  know  the  light  when  it  really  comes." 
"  What  then  would  you  have  of  me  ?  What  am  I  to 
do?"  said  Wingfold,  who,  having  found  his  master,  was 


Il8  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

docile  as  a  child,  but  had  not  laid  firm  enough  hold  upon 
what  he  had  last  said. 

"  I  repeat,"  said  Polwarth,  "  that  the  community  whose 
servant  you  are  was  not  founded  to  promulgate  or  de- 
fend the  doctrine  of  the  existence  of  a  Deity,  but  to  per- 
petuate the  assertion  of  a  man  that  he  was  the  son  and 
only  revealer  of  the  Father  of  men,  a  fact,  if  it  be  a  fact, 
which  precludes  the  question  of  the  existence  of  a  God, 
because  it  includes  the  answer  to  it.  Your  business, 
therefore,  even  as  one  who  finds  himself  in  your  un- 
fortunate position  as  a  cergyman,  is  to  make  yourself 
acquainted  with  that  man  :  he  will  be  to  you  nobody 
save  in  revealing,  through  knowledge  of  his  inmost 
heart,  the  Father  to  you.  Take  then  your  New  Testa- 
ment as  if  you  had  never  seen  it  before,  and  read — to 
find  out.  If  in  him  j^ou  fail  to  meet  God,  then  go  t(3 
your  consciousness  of  the  race,  your  metaphysics,  your 
Plato,  your  Spinosa.  Till  then,  this  point  remains  : 
there  was  a  man  who  said  he  knew  him,  and  that  if  you 
would  give  heed  to  him  you  too  should  know  him.  The 
record  left  of  him  is  indeed  scanty,  yet  enough  to  dis- 
close what  manner  of  man  he  was — his  principles,  his 
ways  of  looking  at  things,  his  thoughts  of  his  Father 
and  his  brethren  and  the  relations  between  them,  of 
man's  business  in  life,  his  destiny,  and  his  hopes." 

"  I  see  plainly,"  answered  the  curate,  "  that  what  you 
say  I  must  do.  But  how,  while  on  duty  as  a  clergyman, 
I  do  not  know.  How  am  I,  with  the  sense  of  the  unreality 
of  my  position  ever  growing  upon  me,  and  my  utter 
inability  to  supply  the  wants  of  the  congregation   save 


THE   CONCLUSION    OF   THE   WHOLE   MATTER.         II9 

from  my  uncle's  store  of  dry  provender,  which  it  takes 
me  a  great  part  of  my  time  so  to  modify  as,  in  using  it, 
to  avoid  direct  lying — with  all  this  pressing  upon  me, 
and  making  me  restless  and  irritable  and  self-contemp- 
tuous, how  am  I  to  set  myself  to  such  solemn  work, 
wherein  a  man  must  surely  be  clear-eyed  and  single- 
hearted  if  he  would  succeed  in  his  quest  ?  I  must  re- 
sign my  curacy." 

Mr.  Polwarth  thought  a  little. 

*'  It  would  be  well,  I  think,  to  retain  it  for  a  time  at 
least  while  you  search,"  he  said.  "  If  you  do  not  within 
a  month  see  prospect  of  finding  Him,  then  resign.  In 
any  case,  your  continuance  in  the  service  must  depend 
on  your  knowledge  of  the  Lord  of  it,  and  his  will  con- 
cerning you.'' 

"  May  not  a  prejudice  in  favor  of  my  profession  blind 
and  deceive  me  ?" 

"  I  think  it  will  rather  make  yoit  doubtful  of  conclu- 
sions that  support  it." 

"I  will  go  and  try,"  said  Wingfold,  rising;  "  but  I 
fear  I  am  not  the  man  to  make  discoveries  in  such  high 
regions." 

"  You  are  the  man  to  find  what  fits  your  own  need  if 
the  thing  be  there,"  said  Polv/arth.  "  But  to  ease  your 
mind  for  the  task  :  I'know  pretty  well  some  of  our  best 
English  writers  of  the  more  practical  and  poetic  sort 
in  theology — the  two  qualities  go  together — and  if 
you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  come  again  to-morrow, 
I  shall  be  able,  I  trust,  to  provide  you  wherewithal 
to    feed   your   flock,  free   of  that   duplicity   which,   be 


I20  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

it  as  common  as  the  surplice,  and  as  fully  connived 
as  laughed  at  by  that  flock,  is  yet  duplicity.  There  is 
no  law  that  sermons  shall  be  the  preacher's  own,  but 
there  is  an  eternal  law  against  all  manner  of  humbug. 
Pardon  the  word." 

"  I  will  not  attempt  to  thank  you,"  said  Wingfold,  "  but 
I  will  do  as  you  tell  me.  You  are  the  first  real  friend  I 
have  ever  had — except  my  brother,  who  is  dead." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  had  more  friends  than  you  are 
aware  of.  You  owe  something  to  the  man,  for  instance, 
who,  with  his  outspoken  antagonism,  roused  you  first 
to  a  sense  of  what  was  lacking  to  you." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  grateful  to  God  for  it  some  day," 
returned  Wingfold.  "  I  can  not  say  that  I  feel  much 
obligation  to  Mr.  Bascombe.  And  yet,  when  I  think  of 
it — perhaps — I  don't  know — what  ought  a  man  to  be 
more  grateful  for  than  honesty  ?" 

After  a  word  of  arrangement  for  next  day  the  curate 
took  his  leave,  assuredly  with  a  stronger  feeling  of 
simple  genuine  respect  than  he  had  ever  yet  felt  for  man. 
Rachel  bade  him  good  night  with  her  fine  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  which  suited  their  expression,  for  they  always 
seemed  to  be  looking  through  sorrow  to  something  be- 
yond it. 

"  If  this  be  a  type  of  the  way  the  sins  of  the  fathers 
are  visited  upon  the  children,"  said  the  curate  to  him- 
self, "  there  must  be  more  in  the  progression  of  history 
than  political  economy  can  explain.  It  would  drive  us 
to  believe  in  an  economy  wherein  rather  the  well-being 
of  the  whole  was  the  result  of  individual  treatment,  and 


THE   CONCLUSION    OF   THE   WHOLE   MATTER.         121 

not  the  well-being  of  the  individual  the  result  of  the 
management  of  the  whole  ?" 

I  will  not  count  the  milestones  along  the  road  on 
which  Wingfold  now  began  to  journey.  Some  of  the 
stages,  however,  will  appear  in  the  course  of  my  story. 
When  he  came  to  any  stiff  bit  of  collar-work,  the  little 
man  generally  appeared  with  an  extra  horse.  Every  day 
during  the  rest  of  that  week  he  saw  his  new  friends. 


CHAPTER    XX, 

A    STRANGE    SERMON. 

N  the  Sunday  the  curate  walked  across  the 
churchyard  to  morning  prayer  very  much  as 
if  the  bells  instead  of  ringing  the  people  to 
church  had  been  tolling  for  his  execution. 
But  if  he  was  going  to  be  hanged,  he  would  at  least  die 
like  a  gentleman,  confessing  his  sin.  Only  he  would  it 
were  bedtime  and  all  well.  He  trembled  so  when  he 
stood  up  to  read  that  he  could  not  tell  whether  or  not 
he  was  speaking  in  a  voice  audible  to  the  congregation. 
But  as  his  hour  drew  near,  the  courage  to  meet  it  drew 
near  also,  and  when  at  length  he  ascended  the  pulpit 
stairs,  he  was  able  to  cast  a  glance  across  the  sea  of 
heads  to  learn  whether  the  little  man  was  in  the  poor 
seats.     But  he  looked  for  the  big  head  in  vain. 

When  he  read  his  text,  it  was  to  a  congregation  as 
listless  and  indifferent  as  it  was  wont  to  be.  He  had 
not  gone  far,  however,  before  that  change  of  mental 
condition  was  visible  on  the  faces  before  him,  which  a 
troop  of  horses  would  have  shown  by  a  general  forward 
swivelling  of  the  ears.     Wonderful  to  tell,  they  were 


A    STRANGE   SERMON.  1 23 

actually  listening.  But  in  truth  it  was  no  wonder,  for 
seldom  in  any,  and  assuredly  never  in  that  church,  had 
there  been  heard  such  an  exordium  to  a  sermon. 

His  text  was,  "  Confessing  your  faults  07ie  to  another  " 
Having  read  it  with  a  return  of  the  former  trem- 
bling, and  paused,  his  brain  suddenly  seemed  for  a 
moment  to  reel  under  a  wave  of  extinction  that  struck 
it,  then  to  float  away  upon  it,  and  then  to  dissolve  in  it, 
as  it  interpenetrated  its  whole  mass,  annihilating 
thought  and  utterance  together.  But  with  a  mighty 
effort  of  the  will,  in  which  he  seemed  to  come  as  near 
as  man  could  come  to  the  willing  of  his  own  existence, 
he  recovered  himself  and  went  on.  To  do  justice  to 
this  effort,  my  reader  must  remember  that  he  was  a 
shy  man,  and  that  he  knew  his  congregation  but  too 
well  for  an  unsympathetic  one — whether  from  their 
fault  or  his  own  mattered  little  for  the  nonce.  It  had 
been  hard  enough  to  make  up  his  mind  to  the  attempt 
when  alone  in  his  study,  or  rather,  to  tell  the  truth,  in 
his  chamber,  but  to  carry  out  his  resolve  in  the  face  of 
so  many  faces,  and  in  spite  of  a  cowardly  brain,  was  an 
effort  and  a  victory  indeed.  Yet  after  all,  upon  second 
thoughts,  I  see  that  the  true  resolve  was  the  victory, 
sweeping  shyness  and  every  other  opposing  weakness 
along  with  it.  But  it  wanted  courage  of  yet  another  sort 
to  make  of  his  resolve  a  fact,  and  his  courage,  in  that  kind 
as  well,  had  never  yet  been  put  to  the  test  or  trained  by 
trial.  He  had  not  been  a  fighting  boy  at  school  ;  he  had 
never  had  the  chance  of  riding  to  hounds  ;  he  had  never 
been  in  a  shipwreck  or  a  house  on  fire  ;  had  never  been 


124  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

waked  from  a  sound  sleep  with  a  demand  for  his  watch 
and  money  ;  yet  one  who  had  passed  creditably  through 
all  these  trials  might  still  have  carried  a  doubting  con- 
science to  his  grave  rather  than  face  what  Wingfold 
now  confronted. 

From  the  manuscript  before  him  he  read  thus  : 
"  *  Confess  your  faults  one  to  another.' — This  com- 
mand of  the  apostle,  my  hearers,  ought  to  justify  me  in 
doing  what  I  fear  some  of  you  may  consider  almost  as 
a  breach  of  morals — talking  of  myself  in  the  pulpit. 
But  in  the  pulpit  has  a  wrong  been  done,  and  in  the 
pulpit  shall  it  be  confessed.  From  Sunday  to  Sunday, 
standing  on  this  spot,  I  have  read  to  you,  without  word 
of  explanation,  as  if  they  formed  the  message  I  had 
sought  and  found  for  you,  the  thoughts  and  words  of 
another.  Doubtless  they  were  better  than  any  I  could 
have  given  you  from  my  own  mind  or  experience,  and 
the  act  had  been  a  righteous  one,  had  I  told  you  the 
truth  concerning  them.  But  that  truth  I  did  not  tell 
you.  At  last,  through  words  of  honest  expostulation, 
the  voice  of  a  friend  whose  wounds  are  faithful,  I  have 
been  aroused  to  a  knowledge  of  the  wrong  I  have  been 
doing.  Therefore  I  now  confess  it.  I  am  sorry.  I  will 
do  so  no  more. 

"  But,  brethren,  I  have  only  a  little  garden  on  a  bare 
hillside,  and  it  hath  never  yet  borne  me  any  fruit  fit  to 
offer  for  your  acceptance  ;  also,  my  heart  is  troubled 
about  many  things,  and  God  hath  humbled  me.  I  beg 
of  you,  therefore,  to  bear  with  me  for  a  little  while,  if, 
doing  what  is  but  lawful  and  expedient  both,  I  break 


A   STRANGE  SERMON.  12$ 

through  the  bonds  of  custom  in  order  to  provide  you 
with  food  convenient  for  you.  Should  I  fail  in  this,  I 
shall  make  room  for  a  better  man.  But  for  your  bread 
of  this  day,  I  go  gleaning  openly  in  other  men's  fields — 
fields  into  which  I  could  not  have  found  my  way,  in  time 
at  least  for  your  necessities,  and  where  I  could  not  have 
gathered  such  full  ears  of  wheat,  barley,  and  oats  but 
for  the  more  than  assistance  of  the  same  friend  who 
warned  me  of  the  wrong  I  was  doing  both  you  and  my- 
self. Right  ancient  fields  are  some  of  them,  where  yet 
the  ears  lie  thick  for  the  gleaner.  To  continue  my 
metaphor:  I  will  lay  each  handful  before  you  with  the 
name  of  the  field  where  I  gathered  it ;  and  together  they 
will  serve  to  show  what  some  of  the  wisest  and  best 
shepherds  of  the  English  flock  have  believed  concerning 
the  duty  of  confessing  our  faults." 

He  then  proceeded  to  read  the  extracts  which  Mr. 
Polwarth  had  helped  him  to  find — and  arrange,  not 
chronologically,  but  after  an  idea  of  growth.  Each 
handful,  as  he  called  it,  he  prefaced  with  one  or  two 
words  concerning  him  in  whose  field  he  had  gleaned  it. 

His  voice  steadied  and  strengthened  as  he  read.  Re- 
newed contact  with  the  minds  of  those  vanished  teachers 
gave  him  a  delight  which  infused  itself  into  the  uttered 
v/ords,  and  made  them  also  joyful ;  and  if  the  curate 
preached  to  no  one  else  in  the  congregation,  certainly 
he  preached  to  himself,  and  before  it  was  done  had 
entered  into  a  thorough  enjoyment  of  the  sermon. 

A  few  of  the  congregation  were  disappointed  because 
they  had  looked  for  a  justification  and  enforcement  of 


126  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

the  confessional,  thinking  the  change  in  the  curate 
could  only  have  come  from  that  portion  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical heavens  towards  which  they  themselves  turned 
their  faces.  A  few  others  were  scandalized  at  such  an 
innovation  on  the  part  of  a  young  man  who  was  only  a 
curate.  Many,  however,  declared  that  it  was  the  most 
interesting  sermon  they  had  ever  heard  in  their  lives — 
which  perhaps  was  not  saying  much. 

Mrs.  Ramshorn  made  a  class  by  herself.  Not  having 
yet  learned  to  like  Wingfold,  and  being  herself  one  of 
the  craft,  with  a  knowledge  of  not  a  few  of  the  secrets 
of  the  clerical — prison-house  shall  I  call  it,  or  green- 
room ? — she  was  indignant  with  the  presumptuous  young 
man  who  degraded  the  pulpit  to  a  level  with  the  dock. 
Who  cared  for  him  }  What  was  it  to  a  congregation  of 
respectable  people,  many  of  them  belonging  to  the  first 
county-families,  that  he,  a  mere  curate,  should  have 
committed  what  he  fancied  a  crime  against  them  !  He 
should  have  waited  until  it  had  been  laid  to  his  charge. 
Couldn't  he  repent  of  his  sins,  whatever  they  were, 
without  makmg  a  boast  of  them  in  the  pulpit,  and  ex- 
posing them  to  the  eyes  of  a  whole  congregation  ?  She 
had  known  people  make  a  stock-in-trade  of  their  sins  ! 
What  was  it  to  them  whether  the  washy  stuff  he  gave 
them  by  way  of  sermons  was  his  own  foolishness  or 
some  other  noodle's  !  Nobody  would  have  troubled 
himself  to  inquire  into  his  honesty  if  he  had  but  held 
his  foolish  tongue.  Better  men  than  he  had  preached 
other  people's  sermons,  and  never  thought  it  worth  men- 
tioning.   And  what  worse  were  the  people  ?    The  only 


A    STRANGE   SERMOX.  127 

harm  lay  in  letting  them  know  it ;  that  brought  the  pro- 
fession into  disgrace,  and  prevented  the  good  the  sermon 
would  otherwise  have  done,  besides  giving  the  enemies 
of  the  truth  a  handle  against  the  church.  And  then 
such  a  thing  to  call  a  sermon  !  As  well  take  a  string  of 
blown  eggs  to  market  !  Thus  she  expatiated,  half  ths 
way  home,  before  either  of  her  companions  found  an 
opportunity  of  saying  a  word. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  differ  from  you,  aunt,"  said  Helen.  "  I 
thought  the  sermon  a  very  interesting  one.  He  read 
beautifully." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Bascombe,  who  was  now  a  regu- 
lar visitor  from  Saturdays  to  Mondays,  "  I  used  to  think 
the  fellow  a  muff,  but,  by  Jove  !  I've  changed  my  mind. 
If  ever  there  was  a  plucky  thing  to  do,  that  was  one, 
and  there  ain't  many  men,  let  me  tell  you,  aunt,  who 
would  have  the  pluck  for  it. — It's  my  belief,  Helen,"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  her  and  speaking  In  a  lower  tone, 
"  I've  had  the  honor  of  doing  that  fellow  some  good. 
I  gave  him  my  mind  about  honesty  pretty  plainly  the 
first  time  I  saw  him.  And  who  can  tell  what  may  come 
next  when  a  fellow  once  starts  in  the  right  way  !  We 
shall  have  him  with  us  before  long.  I  must  look  out 
for  something  for  him,  for  of  course  he'll  be  in  a  devil 
of  a  fix  without  his  profession." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  think  with  me,  G^eorge  !"  said  He- 
len. "  There  was  always  something  I  was  inclined  to 
like  about  Mr.  Wingfold.  Indeed  I  should  have  liked 
him  quite  if  he  had  not  been  so  painfully  modest." 

"  Notwithstanding  his  sheepishness,  though,"  return- 


128  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

ed  Bascombe,  "  there  was  a  sort  of  quiet  self-satisfaction 
about  him,  and  the  way  he  always  said  Don  t you  think? 
as  if  he  were  Socrates  taking  advantage  of  Mr.  Green 
and  softly  guiding  him  into  a  trap,  which  I  confess 
made  me  set  him  down  as  conceited  ;  but,  as  I  say,  I 
begin  to  change  my  mind.  By  Jove  !  he  must  have 
worked  pretty  hard  too  in  the  dust-bins  tp  get  together 
all  those  bits  of  gay  rag  and  resplendent  crockery !" 

"  You  heard  him  say  he  had  help." 

*'  No,  I  don't  remember  that." 

"  It  came  just  after  that  pretty  simile  about  gleaning 
in  old  fields." 

"  I  remember  the  simile,  for  I  thought  it  a  very  ab- 
surd one — as  if  fields  would  lie  gleanable  for  genera- 
tions !" 

"To  be  sure — now  you  point  it  out!"  acquiesced 
Helen. 

"  The  grain  would  have  sprouted  and  borne  harvests 
a  hundred.  If  a  man  will  use  figures,  he  should  be 
careful  to  give  them  legs.  I  wonder  who  he  got  to  help 
him — not  the  rector,  I  suppose  T' 

"The  rector  !"  echoed  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  who  had  been 
listening  to  the  young  people's  remarks  with  a  smile  of 
quiet  scorn  on  her  lip,  thinking  what  an  advantage  was 
experience,  even  if  it  could  not  make  up  for  the  loss  of 
youth  and  beauty — "  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  lend 
himself  to  such  a  miserable  makeshift  and  pretence  ! 
Without  brains  enough  even  to  fancy  himself  able  to 
write  a  sermon  of  his  own,  he  flies  to  the  dead, — to  their 
very  coffin  as  it  were — and  I  will  not  say  steals  from 


A   STRANGE   SERMON.  1 29 

them,  for  he  does  it  openly,  not  having  even  shame 
enough  to  conceal  his  shame  !" 

"  I  like  a  man  to  hold  his  face  to  what  he  does,  or 
thinks  either,"  said  Bascombe. 

"  Ah  !  George,"  returned  his  aunt,  in  tones  of  wisdom, 
"  by  the  time  you  have  had  my  experience  you  will 
have  learned  a  little  prudence." 

Meantime,  so  far  as  his  aunt  was  concerned,  George 
did  use  prudence,  for  in  her  presence  he  did  not  hold 
his  face  to  what  he  thought.  He  said  to  himself  it 
would  do  her  no  good.  She  was  so  prejudiced  !  and  it 
might  interfere  with  his  visits.  She,  for  her  part,  never 
had  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  orthodoxy :  was  he  not 
the  son  of  a  clergyman  and  canon — a  grandson  ot  the 
church  herself? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A     THUNDERBOLT. 

OMETIMES  a  thunderbolt,  as  men  call  it,  will 
shoot  from  a  clear  sk)/  ;  and  sometimes,  into 
the  midst  of  a  peaceful  family,  or  a  yet 
quieter  individuality,  without  warning  of 
gathered  storm  above  or  slightest  tremble  of  earth- 
quake beneath,  will  fall  a  terrible  fact,  and  from  the 
moment  every  thing  is  changed.  That  family  or  that 
life  is  no  more  what  it  was — probably  never  more  can 
Ije  what  it  was.  Better  it  ought  to  be,  worse  it  may  be 
— which,  depends  upon  itself.  But  its  spiritual  weather 
is  altered.  The  air  is  thick  with  cloud,  and  can  not  weep 
itself  clear.  There  may  come  a  gorgeous  sunset,  though. 
It  were  a  truism  for  one  who  believes  in  God  to  say 
that  such  catastrophes,  so  rending,  so  frightful,  never 
come  but  where  they  are  needed.  The  Power  of  Life  is 
not  content  that  they  who  live  in  and  by  him  should 
live  poorly  and  contemptibly.  If  the  presence  of  low 
thoughts  which  he  repudiates,  yet  makes  a  man  misera- 
ble, how  must  it  be  with  him  if  they  who  live  and  move 


A    THUNDERBOLT.  13] 


and  have  their  being  in  him  are  mean  and  repulsive,  or 
ahenated  through  self-sufficiency  and  slowness  of  heart? 

I  can  not  report  much  progress  in  Helen  during  the 
months  of  winter  and  spring.  But  if  one  wakes  at  last, 
wakes  at  all,  who  shall  dare  cast  the  stone  at  him — that 
he  ought  to  have  awaked  sooner.^  What  man  who  is 
awake  will  dare  to  say  that  he  roused  himself  the  first 
moment  it  became  possible  to  him  ?  The  main  and  plain 
and  worst,  perhaps  only  condemnation,  is — that  when 
people  do  wake  they  do  not  get  up.  At  the  same  time, 
however,  I  can  hardly  doubt  that  Helen  was  keeping 
the  law  of  a  progress  slow  as  the  growth  of  an  iron-tree. 

Nothing  had  ever  yet  troubled  her.  She  had  never 
been  in  love,  could  hardly  be  said  to  be  in  love  now. 
She  went  regularly  to  church,  and  I  believe  said  her 
prayers  night  and  morning — yet  felt  no  indignation  at 
the  doctrines  and  theories  propounded  by  George  Bas- 
combe.  She  regarded  them  as  "  George's  ideas,"  and 
never  cared  to  ask  whether  they  were  true  or  not,  at 
the  same  time  that  they  were  becoming  to  her  by  de-* 
grees  as  like  truth  as  falsehood  can  ever  be.  For  to  the 
untruthful  mind  the  false  can  seem  the  true.  Meantime 
she  was  not  even  capable  of  giving  him  the  credit  he 
deserved,  in  that,  holding  the  opinions  he  held,  he  yet 
advocated  a  life  spent  for  the  community — without,  as  I 
presume,  deriving  much  inspiration  thereto  from  what 
he  himself  would  represent  as  the  ground  of  all  consci- 
entious action,  the  consideration,  namely,  of  its  reaction 
upon  its  originator.  Still  farther  was  it  from  entering 
the  field  of  her  vision  that  possibly  soma  of  the  good 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


which  distinguished  George's  unbelief  from  that  of  his 
brother  ephemera  of  the  last  century  was  owing  to  the 
deeper  working  of  that  leaven  which  he  denounced 
as  the  poisonous  root  whence  sprung  all  the  evil  dis- 
eases that  gnawed  at  the  heart  of  society. 

One  night  she  sat  late,  making  her  aunt  a  cap.  The 
one  sign  of  originality  in  her  was  the  character  of 
her  millinery,  of  which  kind  of  creation  she  was  fond, 
displaying  therein  both  invention  as  to  form  and  per- 
ception as  to  effect,  combined  with  lightness  and  deft- 
ness of  execution.  She  was  desirous  of  completing  it 
before  the  next  morning,  which  was  that  of  her  aunt's 
birthday.  They  had  had  friends  to  dine  with  them  who 
had  stayed  rather  late,  and  it  was  now  getting  towards 
one  o'clock.  But  Helen  was  not  easily  tired,  and  was  not 
given  to  abandoning  what  she  had  undertaken  ;  so  she 
sat  working  away,  and  thinking,  not  of  George  Bas- 
conibc,  but  of  one  whom  she  loved  better — far  better — 
her  brother  Leopold.  But  she  was  thinking  of  him  not 
quite  so  comfortably  as  usual.  Certain  anxieties  she 
had  ground  for  concerning  him  had  grown  stronger,  for 
the  time  since  she  heard  from  him  had  grown  very  long. 

All  at  once  her  work  ceased,  her  hands  were  arrested, 
her  posture  grew  rigid  :  she  was  listening.  Had  she 
heard  a  noise  outside  her  window  } 

My  reader  may  remember  that  it  opened  on  a  balco- 
ny, which  was  at  the  same  time  the  roof  of  a  veranda 
that  went  along  the  back  of  the  house,  and  had  a  stair 
at  one  end  to  the  garden. 

Helen  was  not  easily  frightened,  and  had  stopped  her 


A   THUNDERBOLT.  1 33 


needle  only  that  she  might  listen  the  better.     She  heard 
nothing.     Of  course  it  was  but  a  fancy  !     Her   hands 
went  on  again  with  their  work. — But  that  was  really 
very  like  a  tap  at  the  window  !     And  now  her  heart  did 
beat  a  little  faster,  if  not  with  fear,  then  with  something 
very  like  it,   in  which  perhaps  some   foreboding  was 
mingled.     But  she  was  not  a  woman  to  lay  down  her 
arms  upon  the  inroad  of  a  vague  terror.     She  quietly 
rose,  and,  saying  to  herself  it  must  be  one  of  the  pigeons 
that  haunted  the  balcony,  laid   her   work  on  the  table, 
and  went  to  the  window.     As  she  drew  one  of  the  cur- 
tains a  little  aside  to  peep,  the  tap  was  plainly  and  hur- 
riedly though  softly  repeated,  and  at  once  she  swept  it 
back.     There  was  the  dim  shadow  of  a  man's  head  upon 
the  blind,  cast  there  by  an  old  withered  moon  low  in  the 
west  !     Perhaps  it  was  something  in   the  shape  of  the 
shadow  that  made  her  pull  up  the  blind  so  hurriedly,  and 
yet  with  something  of  the  awe  with  which  we  take  "  the 
face-cloth   from   the   face."     Yes,  there  was  a  face  ! — 
frightful,  not  as  that  of  a  corpse,  but  as  that  of  a  spec- 
tre from  whose  soul  the  scars  of  his  mortal  end  have 
never  passed  away.     Helen  did  not  scream— her  throat 
seemed  to  close  and  her  heart  to  cease.     But  her  eyes 
continued  movelessly  fixed  on  the  face  even  after  she 
knew  it  was  the  face  of  her  brother,  and  the  eyes  of  the 
face  kept  staring  back  into  hers  through  the  glass  with 
such  a  look  of  concentrated  eagerness  that  they  seemed 
no  more  organs  of  vision  but  caves  of  hunger,  nor  was 
there  a  movement  of  the  lips  towards  speech.     The  two 
gazed  at  each  other  for  a  moment  of  rigid  silence.     The 


134  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

glass  that  separated  them  might  have  been  the  veil  that 
divides  those  who  call  themselves  the  living  from  those 
whom  they  call  the  dead. 

It  was  but  a  moment  by  the  clock,  though  to  the 
after  consciousness  it  seemed  space  immeasurable.  She 
came  to  herself,  and  slowly,  noiselessly,  though  with 
tremulous  hand,  undid  the  sash  and  opened  the  window. 
Nothing  divided  them  now,  yet  he  stood  as  before,  star- 
ing into  her  face.  Presently  his  lips  began  to  move, 
but  no  words  came  from  them. 

In  Helen  horror  had  already  roused  the  instinct  of  se- 
crecy. She  put  out  her  two  hands,  took  his  face  be- 
tween them,  and  said  in  a  hurried  whisper,  calling  him 
by  the  pet  name  she  had  given  him  when  a  child, 

"  Come  in,  Poldie,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Her  voice  seemed  to  wake  him.  Slowly,  with  the 
movements  of  one  half  paralyzed,  he  shoved  and  drag- 
ged himself  over  the  window-sill,  dropped  himself  on 
the  floor  inside,  and  lay  there,  looking  up  in  her  face 
like  a  hunted  animal,  that  hoped  he  had  found  a  refuge, 
but  doubted.  Seeing  him  so  exhausted,  she  turned 
from  him  to  go  and  get  some  brandy,  but  a  low  cry  of 
agony  drew  her  back.  His  head  was  raised  from  the 
floor  and  his  hands  were  stretched  out,  while  his  face 
entreated  her,  as  plainly  as  if  he  had  spoken,  not  to 
leave  him.  She  knelt  and  would  have  kissed  him,  but 
he  turned  his  face  from  her  with  an  expression  which- 
seemed  of  disgust. 

"  Poldie,"  she  said,  "  Imtist^o  andget  you  something. 
Don't  be  afraid.    They  are  all  sound  asleep." 


A   THUNDERBOLT.  135 


The  grasp  with  which  he  had  clutched  her  dress  re- 
laxed, and  his  hand  fell  by  his  side.  She  rose  at  once 
and  went,  creeping  through  the  slumberous  house,  light 
and  noiseless  as  a  shadow,  but  with  a  heart  that  seemed 
not  her  own  lying  hard  in  her  bosom.  As  she  went  she 
had  to  struggle  to  rouse  and  compose  herself,  for  she 
could  not  think.  An  age  seemed  to  have  passed  since 
she  heard  the  clock  strike  twelve.  One  thing  was  clear 
—  her  brother  had  been  doing  something  wrong,  and 
dreading  discovery  had  fled  to  her.  The  moment  this 
conviction  made  itself  plain  to  her  she  drew  herself  up 
with  the  great  deep  breath  of  a  vow,  as  strong  as  it  was 
silent  and  undefined,  that  he  should  not  have  come  to  her 
in  vain.  Silent-footed  as  a  beast  of  prey,  silent-handed  as 
a  thief,  lithe  in  her  movements,  her  eye  flashing  with 
the  new-kindled  instinct  of  motherhood  to  the  or- 
phan of  her  father,  it  was  as  if  her  soul  had  been  sud- 
denly raised  to  a  white  heat,  which  rendered  her  body 
elastic  and  responsive. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


LEOPOLD 


HE  re-entered  her  room  with  the  gait  of  a 
new-born  goddess  treading  the  air.  Her 
brother  was  yet  prostrate  where  she  had  left 
him.  He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  seized 
with  trembling  hand  the  glass  she  offered  him,  swal- 
lowed the  brandy  at  a  gulp,  and  sank  again  on  the 
floor.  The  next  instant  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  cast  a 
terrified  look  at  the  window,  bounded  to  the  door  and 
locked  it,  then  ran  to  his  sister,  threw  his  arms  about 
her,  and  clung  to  her  like  a  trembling  child.  But  ever 
his  eyes  kept  turning  to  the  window. 

Though  now  twenty  years  of  age,  and  at  his  fuU 
height,  he  was  hardly  so  tall  as  Helen.  Swarthy  of 
complexion,  his  hair  dark  as  the  night,  his  eyes  large 
and  lustrous,  with  what  Milton  calls  '  quel  sereno  ful- 
gor  d'  amabil  ncro,'  his  frame  nervous  and  slender,  he 
looked  compact  and  small  beside  her. 

She  did  her  utmost  to  quiet  him,  unconsciously  using 
the  same  words  and  tones  with  which  she  had  soothed  his 
passions  when  he  was  a  child.    All  at  once  he  raised  his 


LEOPOLD.  137 


head  and  drew  himself  back  from  her  arms  with  a  look 
of  horror,  then  put  his  handover  his  eyes  as  if  her  face 
had  been  a  mirror  and  he  had  seen  himself  in  it. 

"  What  is  that  on  your  wristband,  Leopold  ?"  she 
asked.    "  Have  you  hurt  yourself  ?" 

The  youth  cast  an  indescribable  look  on  his  hand,  but 
it  was  not  that  which  turned  Helen  so  deadly  sick  : 
with  her  question  had  come  to  her  the  ghastly  suspi- 
cion that  the  blood  she  saw  was  not  his,  and  she 
felt  guilty  of  an  unpardonable,  wicked  wrong  against 
him.  But  she  would  never,  never  believe  it !  A  sister 
suspect  her  only  brother  oi  such  a  crime!  Yet  her 
arms  dropped  and  let  him  go.  She  stepped  back  a  pace, 
and  of  themselves,  as  it  were,  her  eyes  went  wandering 
and  questioning  all  over  him,  and  saw  that  his  clothes 
were  torn  and  soiled — stained — who  could  tell  with 
what? 

He  stood  for  a  moment  still  and  submissive  to  their 
search,  with  face  downcast.  Then,  suddenly  flashing 
his  eyes  on  her,  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  force 
its  way  through  earth  that  choked  it  back, 

"  Helen,  I  am  a  murderer,  and  they  are  after  me. 
They  will  be  here  before  daylight." 

He  dropped  on  his  knees,  and  clasped  hers. 

"  O  sister  !  sister  !  save  me,  save  me  !"  he  cried  in  a 
voice  of  agony. 

Helen  stood  without  response,  for  to  stand  took  all 
her  strength.  How  long  she  fought  that  horrible  sick- 
ness, knowing  that,  if  she  moved  an  inch,  turned  frpm 
it  a  moment,  yielded  a  hair's-breadth,  it  would  thro-vy 


138  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

her  senseless  on  the  floor  and  the  noise  of  her  fall 
would  rouse  the  house,  she  never  could  even  conjec- 
ture. All  was  dark  before  her,  as  if  her  gaze  had  been 
on  the  under  side  of  her  coffin-lid,  and  her  brain  sank 
and  swayed  and  swung  in  the  coils  of  the  white  snake 
that  was  sucking  at  her  heart.  At  length  the  darkness 
thinned  ;  it  grew  a  gray  mist ;  the  face  of  her  boy-bro- 
ther glimmered  up  through  it,  like  that  of  Dives  in  hell- 
fire  to  his  guardian-angel  as  he  hung  lax-winged  and  faint 
in  the  ascending  smoke.  The  mist  thinned,  and  at 
length  she  caught  a  glimmer  of  his  pleading,  despairing, 
self-horrified  e5^es*:  all  the  mother  in  her  nature  rushed 
to  the  aid  of  her  struggling  will  ;  her  heart  gave  a  great 
heave  ;  the  blood  ascended  to  her  white  brain,  and 
flushed  it  with  rosy  life  ;  her  body  was  once  more  re- 
conciled and  obedient ;  her  hands  went  forth,  took  his 
head  between  them,  and  pressed  it  against  her. 

"  Poldie,  dear,"  she  said,  "  be  calm  and  reasonable, 
and  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you.  Here,  take  this. — And 
now,  answer  me  one  question." 

"  You  won't  give  me  up,  Helen  ?" 

*'  No.     I  will  not." 

"  Swear  it,  Helen." 

"  Ah  !  my  poor  Poldie,  is  it  come  to  this  between 
you  and  me  ?" 

*'  Swear  it,  Helen." 

"So  help  me  God,  I  will  not!"  murmured  Helen, 
looking  up. 

Leopold  rose,  and  again  stood  quiet  before  her,  but 


LEOPOLD.  139 


again  with  down-bent  head,  like  a  prisoner  about  to  re- 
ceive sentence. 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  said  a  moment  since — that 
the  poHce  are  in  search  of  you  ?"  asked  Helen  with 
forced  cahnness. 

"  They  must  be.  They  must  have  been  after  me  for 
days — I  don't  know  how  many.  They  will  be  here  soon. 
I  can't  think  how  I  have  escaped  them  so  long.  Hark  ! 
Isn't  that  a  noise  ait  the  street-door  .^  No,  no  !  There's  a 
shadow  on  the  curtains!  No!  it's  my  eyes;  they've 
cheated  me  a  thousand  times.  Helen  !  I  did  not  try  to 
hide  her ;  they  must  have  found  her  long  ago." 

"My  God!"  cried  Helen,  but  checked  the  scream 
that  sought  to  follow  the  cry. 

"  There  was  an  old  shaft  near,"  he  went  on  hurriedly. 
"  If  I  had  thrown  her  down  that  they  would  never  have 
found  her,  for  there  must  be  choke-damp  at  the  bottom 
of  it  enough  to  kill  a  thousand  of  them.  But  I  could 
not  bear  the  thought  of  sending  the  lovely  thing  down 
there — even  to  save  my  life." 

He  was  growing  wild  again,  but  the  horror  had  again 
laid  hold  upon  Helen,  and  she  stood  speechless,  staring 
at  him. 

"  Hide  me,  hide  me,  Helen  !"  he  pleaded.  "  Perhaps 
you  think  I  am  mad.  Would  to  God  I  were  !  Some- 
times I  think.  I  must  be.  But  this  I  tell  you  is  no  mad- 
man's fancy.  If  you  take  it  for  that,  you  will  bring  me 
to  the  gallows. — So,  if  you  will  s^e  me  hanged — " 

He  sat  down  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  Hush,  Poldie,  hush  !"  cried  Helen,  in  an  njronized 


I40  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


whisper.  "  I  am  only  thinking  what  I  can  best  do.  I 
can  not  hide  you  here,  for  if  my  aunt  knew,  she  would 
betray  you  by  her  terrors  ;  and  if  she  did  not  know,  and 
those  men  came,  she  would  help  them  to  search  every 
corner  of  the  house.  Otherwise  there  might  be  a 
chance." 

Again  she  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  then,  seem- 
ing suddenly  to  have  made  up  her  mind,  went  softly  to 
the  door. 

"  Don't  leave  me !"  cried  Leopold. 

••  Hush  !  I  must.  I  know  now  what  to  do.  Be  quiet 
here  until  I  come  back." 

Slowly,  cautiously,  she  unlocked  it,  and  left  the  room. 
In  three  or  four  minutes  she  returned,  carrying  a  loaf 
of  bread  and  a  bottle  of  wine.  To  her  dismay  Leopold 
had  vanished.  Presently  he  came  creeping  out  from 
under  the  bed,  looking  so  abject  that  Helen  could  not 
help  a  pang  of  shame.  But  the  next  moment  the  love 
of  the  sister,  the  tender  compassion  of  the  woman,  re- 
turned in  full  tide  and  swallowed  up  the  unsightly  thing. 
The  more  abject  he  was  the  more  was  he  to  be  pitied 
and  ministered  to. 

•'  Here,  Poldie,"  she  said,  "  you  carry  the  bread,  and  I 
will  take  the  wine.  You  must  eat  something,  or  you 
will  be  ill." 

As  she  spoke,  she  locked  the  door  again.  Then  she 
put  a  dark  shawl  over  her  head,  and  fastened  it  under 
her  chin.  Her  white  face  shone  out  from  it  like  the 
moun  from  a  dark  cloud. 

"  Follow  me,  Poldie,"  she  said,  and  putting  out  the 


LEOPOLD.  141 


candles,  went  to  the  window.  He  obeyed  without  ques- 
tion, carrying  the  loaf  she  had  put  into  his  hands.  The 
window-sash  rested  on  a  little  door  ;  she  opened  it,  and 
stepped  on  the  balcony.  As  soon  as  her  brother  had 
followed  her,  she  closed  it  again,  drew  down  the  sash, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  garden,  and  so,  by  the  door  in  the 
sunk  fence,  out  upon  the  meadows- 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


THE    REFUGE. 


HE  night  was  very  dusk)^  but  Helen  knew 
perfectly  the  way  she  was  going.  A  strange 
excitement  possessed  her,  and  lifted  her 
above  all  personal  fear.  The  instant  she 
found  herself  in  the  open  air,  her  faculties  seemed 
to  come  preternaturally  awake,  and  her  judgment 
to  grow  quite  cool.  She  congratulated  herself  that 
there  had  been  no  rain,  and  the  ground  would  not 
betray  their  steps.  There  was  enough  of  light  in  the 
sky  to  see  the  trees  against  it,  and  partly  by  their  out- 
lines she  guided  herself  to  the  door  in  the  park-paling, 
whence  she  went  as  straight  as  she  could  for  the  desert- 
ed house.  Remembering  well  her  brother's  old  dislike 
to  the  place,  she  said  nothing  of  their  destination,  but 
when  he  suddenly  stopped,  she  knew  that  it  had  dawned 
upon  him.  For  one  moment  he  hung  back,  but  a 
stronger  and  more  definite  fear  lay  behind,  and  he 
went  on. 

Emerging  from  the  trees  on  the  edge  of  the  hollow, 
they  looked  down,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  the  mass 


THE   REFUGE.  143 


of  the  house,  or  the  shghtest  gleam  from  the  surface  of 
the  lake.  All  was  silent  as  a  deserted  churchyard,  and 
they  went  down  the  slope  as  if  it  had  been  the  descent 
to  Hades.  Arrived  at  the  wall  of  the  garden,  they  fol- 
lowed its  buttressed  length  until  they  came  to  a  tall 
narrow  gate  of  wrought  iron,  ahnost  consumed  with 
rust,  and  standing  half  open.  By  this  they  passed  into 
the  desolate  garden,  whose  misery  in  the  daytime  was 
like  that  of  a  ruined  soul,  but  now  hidden  in  the  night's 
black  mantle.  Through  the  straggling  bushes  with 
their  arms  they  forced  and  with  their  feet  they  felt  their 
way  to  the  front  door  of  the  house,  the  steps  to  which, 
from  the  effects  of  various  floods,  were  all  out  of  the 
level  in  different  directions.  The  door  was  unlocked  as 
usual,  needing  only  a  strong  push  to  open  it,  and  they 
entered.  How  awfully  still  'it  seemed  !  —much  stiller 
than  the  open  air,  though  that  had  seemed  noiseless. 
There  was  not  a  rat  or  a  black  beetle  in  the  place.  They 
groped  their  way  through  the  hall  and  up  the  wide 
staircase,  which  gave  not  one  creak  in  answer  to  their 
needlessly  careful  footsteps  :  not  a  soul  was  within  a  mile 
of  them.  Helen  had  taken  Leopold  by  the  hand,  and 
she  now  led  him  straight  to  the  closet  whence  the  hid- 
den room  opened.  He  made  no  resistance,  for  the 
covering  wmgs  of  the  darkness  had  protection  in  them. 
How  desolate  must  the  soul  be  that  welcomes  such  pro- 
tection !  But  when,  knowing  that  thence  no  ray  could 
reach  the  outside,  she  struck  a  light,  and  the  spot  where 
he  had  so  often  shuddered  was  laid  bare  to  his  soul,  he 
gave  a  cry  and  turned  and  would  have  rushed  away. 


144.  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Helen  caught  him  ;  he  yielded,  and  allowed  her  to  lead 
him  into  the  room.  There  she. lighted  a  candle,  and  as 
it  came  gradually  alive,  it  shed  a  pale  yellow  light 
around,  and  revealed  a  bare  chamber  with  a  bedstead 
and  the  remains  of  a  moth-eaten  mattress  in  a  corner. 
Leopold  threw  himself  upon  it,  uttering  a  sound  that 
more  resembled  a  choked  scream  than  a  groan.  Helen 
sat  down  beside  him,  took  his  head  on  her  lap,  and 
sought  to  soothe  him  with  such  tender  loving  words  as 
had  never  before  found  birth  in  her  heart,  not  to  say 
crossed  her  lips.  She  took  from  her  pocket  a  dainty 
morsel,  and  tried  to  make  him  eat,  but  in  vain.  Then 
she  poured  him  out  a  cupful  of  wine.  He  drank  it 
eagerly,  and  asked  for  more,  which  she  would  not  give 
him.  But  instead  of  comforting  him,  it  seemed  only  to 
rouse  him  to  fresh  horror.  He  clung  to  his  sister  as  a 
child  clings  to  the  nurse  who  has  just  been  telling  him 
an  evil  tale,  and  ev^er  his  face  would  keep  turning  from 
her  to  the  door  with  a  look  of  frightful  anticipation. 
She  consoled  him  with  all  her  ingenuity,  assured  him 
that  for  the  present  he  was  perfectly  safe,  and,  thinking 
it  would  encourage  a  sense  of  concealment,  reminded 
him  of  the  trap  in  the  floor  of  the  closet  and  the  little 
chamber  underneath.  But  at  that  he  started  up  with 
glaring  eyes. 

"  Helen  !  I  remember  now,"  lie  cried.  "  I  knew  it  at 
the  lime  !  Don't  you  know  I  never  could  endure  the 
place  ?  I  foresaw,  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  now,  that  one 
day  I  should  be  crouching  here  for  safety  with  a  hideous 


THE  REFUGE.  145 


crime  on  my  conscience.  I  told  you  so.  Helen,  at  the 
time.     Oh  !  how  could  you  bring  me  here  ?" 

He  threw  himself  down  again,  and  hid  his  face  on  her 
lap. 

With  a  fresh  inroad  of  dismay  Helen  thought  he  must 
be  going  mad,  for  this  was  the  merest  trick  of  his  imagi- 
nation. Certainly  he  had  always  dreaded  the  place,  but 
never  a  word  of  that  sort  had  he  said  to  her.  Yet  there 
was  a  shadow  of  possible  comfort  in  the  thought — for 
what  if  the  whole  thing  should  prove  an  hallucination  ! 
But  whether  real  or  not,  she  must  have  his  story. 

"Come,  dearest  Poldie,  darling  brother!"  she  said, 
"  you  have  not  yet  told  me  what  it  is.  What  is  the  ter- 
rible thing  you  have  done  ?  I  dare  say  it's  nothing  so 
very  bad  after  all  !" 

"  There's  the  light  coming  !"  he  said  in  a  dull  hollow 
voice,  "  — the  morning  !  always  the  morning  coming 
again !" 

"  No,  no,  dear  Poldie  !"  she  returned.  ''There  fs  no 
window  here — at  least  it  only  looks  on  the  back  stair, 
high  above  heads ;  and  the  morning  is  a  long  way  off." 

"  How  far?"  he  asked,  staring  in  her  eyes  ;  "  twenty 
years  ?  That  was  just  when  I  was  born  !  Oh  !  that  I 
could  enter  a  second  time  into  my  mother's  womb,  and 
never  be  born  !  Why  are  we  sent  into  this  cursed 
world  ?  I  would  God  had  never  made  it.  What  was  the 
good  ?     Couldn't  he  have  let  well  alone  ?" 

He  was  silent.     She  must  get  him  to  sleep. 

It  was  as  if  a  second  soul  had  been  given  her  to  sup- 
plement the  first,  and  enable  her  to  meet  what  would 


146  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

otherwise  have  been  the  exorbitant  demands  now  made 
upon  her.  With  an  effort  of  the  will  such  as  she  could 
never  before  have  even  imagined,  she  controlled  the 
anguish  of  her  own  spirit,  and,  softly  stroking  the  head 
of  the  poor  lad,  which  had  again  sought  her  lap,  com- 
pelled herself  to  sing  him  for  lullaby  a  song  of  which  in 
his  childhood  he  had  been  very  fond,  and  with  which,  in 
all  the  importance  of  imagined  motherhood,  she  had 
often  sung  him  to  sleep.  And  the  old  influence  was 
potent  yet.  In  a  few  minutes  the  fingers  which  clutched 
her  hand  relaxed,  and  she  knew  by  his  breathing  that 
he  slept.  She  sat  still  as  a  stone,  not  daring  to  move, 
hardly  daring  breath  enough  to  keep  her  alive,  lest  she 
should  rouse  him  from  his  few  blessed  moments  of  self- 
nothingness,  during  which  the  tide  of  the  all-infolding 
ocean  of  peace  was  free  to  flow  into  the  fire-torn  cave 
of  his  bosom.  She  sat  motionless  thus,  until  it  seemed 
as  if  for  very  weariness  she  must  drop  in  a  heap  on  the 
floo'r,  but  that  the  aches  and  pains  which  went  through 
her  in  all  directions  held  her  body  together  like  ties  and 
rivets.  She  had  never  before  known  what  weariness 
was,  and  now  she  knew  it  for  all  her  life.  But  like  an 
irritant,  her  worn  body  clung  about  her  soul  and  dulled 
it  to  its  own  grief,  thus  helping  it  to  a  pitiful  kind  of  re- 
pose. How  long  she  sat  thus  she  could  not  tell — she 
had  no  means  of  knowing,  but  it  seemed  hours  on  hours, 
and  yet.  though  the  nights  were  now  short,  the  dark- 
ness had  not  begun  to  thin.  But  when  she  thought 
how  little  access  the  light  had  to  that  room,  she  began  to 
grow  uneasy  lest  she  should  b^  missed  from  her  own, 


THE   REFUGE.  147 


or  seen  on  her  way  back  to  it.  At  length  some  in- 
voluntary movement  woke  him.  He  started  to  his  feet 
with  a  look  of  wild  gladness.  But  there  was  scarcely 
time  to  recognize  it  before  it  vanished. 

"  My  God,  it  is  true,  then  !"  he  shrieked.  "  O  Helen  ! 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  innocent — that  I  had  but  dreamed 
I  had  done  it.  Tell  me  that  I'm  dreaming  now.  Tell 
me  !  tell  me  !     Tell  me  that  I  am  no  murderer  !" 

As  he  spoke  he  seized  her  shoulder  with  a  fierce 
grasp,  and  shook  her  as  if  trying  to  wake  her  from  the 
silence  of  a  lethargy. 

"  I  hope  you  are  innocent,  my  darling.  But  in  any 
case  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  protect  you,"  said  Helen. 
"  Only  I  shall  never  be  able  unless  you  control  yourself 
sufficiently  to  let  me  go  home." 

"  No,  Helen  !"  he  cried  ;  "  you  must  not  leave  me.  If 
you  do,  1  shall  go  mad.     She  will  come  instead." 

Helen  shuddered  inwardly,  but  kept  her  outward  com- 
posure. 

"  If  I  stay  with  you,  just  think,  dearest,  what  will 
happen,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  missed,  and  all  the 
country  will  be  raised  to  Icok  for  me.  They  will  think 
I  have  been — ."     She  checked  herself. 

"  And  so  you  might  be — so  might  any  one,"  he  cried, 
"  so  long  as  I  am  loose — like  the  Rajah's  man-eating 
horse.  O  God  !  it  has  come  to  this  !"  And  he  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

"And  then  you  see,  my  Poldie,"  Helen  went  on  as 
calmly  as  she  could,  "  they  would  come  here  and  find 
us  ;  and  I  don't  know  what  might  come  next." 


148  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Helen  !  Go,  go  directly.  Leave  me  this 
instant,"  he  said  hurriedly,  and  took  her  by  the  shoul- 
ders, as  if  he  would  push  her  from  the  room,  but  went 
on  talking.  "  It  must  be,  I  know  ;  but  when  the  light 
comes  I  shall  go  mad.  Would  to  God  I  might,  for  the 
day  is  worse  than  the  darkness  ;  then  I  see  my  own 
black  against  the  light.  Now  go,  Helen.  But  you  will 
come  back  to  me  as  soon  as  ever  you  can  }  How  shall 
I  know  when  to  begin  to  look  for  you  .''  What  o'clock 
is  it  ?  My  watch  has  never  been — since — .  Ugh  ! 
the  light  will  be  here  soon.  Helen,  I  know  not  what 
hell  is. — Ah  !  yes."  As  he  spoke  he  had  been  feeling  in 
one  of  his  pockets.  "  I  will  not  be  taken  alive. — Can  you 
whistle,  Helen  ?" 

"  Yes,  Poldie,"  answered  Helen,  trembling.  "  Don't 
you  remember  teaching  me  T' 

"  Yes,  yes.  Then,  when  you  come  near  the  house, 
whistle,  and  go  on  whistling,  for  if  I  hear  a  step  without 
any  whistling  I  shall  kill  myself." 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  she  asked,  in  renewed 
terror,  noticing  that  he  kept  his  hand  in  the  breast- 
pocket of  his  coat. 

"  Only  the  knife,"  he  answered  calmly. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  said,  calmly  too. 

He  laughed,  and  the  laugh  was  more  terrible  than  any 
cry. 

"  Nc  ;  I'm  not  so  green  as  that,"  he  said.  "*My  knife 
is  my  only  friend  !  Who  is  to  take  care  of  me  when  you 
are  away  ?    Ha  !  ha !" 

She  saw  that  the  comfort  of  the  knife  must  not  be 


THE   REFUGE. 


149 


denied  him.  Nor  did  she  fear  any  visit  that  might  drive 
him  to  its  use — except  indeed  the  poHce  ^vere  to  come 
upon  him — and  then  what  better  could  he  do  ?  she 
thought. 

"  Well,  well,  1  will  not  plague  you,"  she  said.  ^'  Lie 
down  and  I  will  cover  you  with  my  shawl,  and  you  can 
fanc}^  it  my  arms  round  3^ou.  I  will  come  to  you  as 
soon  as  ever  I  can." 

He  obeyed.  She  spread  her  shawl  over  him  and 
kissed  hiir. 

"  Thank  you,  Helen,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  Pray  to  God  to  deliver  you,  dear,"  she  said. 

"  He  can  do  that  only  by  killing  me,"  he  returned. 
"  I  will  pray  for  that.  But  do  you  go,  Helen,  i  will 
try  to  bear  my  misery  for  your  sake." 

He  followed  her  from  the  room  with  ej^es  out  of 
which  looked  the  very  demon  of  silent  despair. 

I  will  not  further  attempt  to  set  forth  his  feelings. 
The  incredible,  the  impossible,  had  become  a  fact — and 
he  was  the  man.  He  who  knows  the  relief  of  waking 
from  a  dream  of  crime  to  the  jubilation  of  recovered  in' 
nocence,  to  the  sunlight  that  blots  out  the  thing  as  un- 
true, may  by  help  of  that  conceive  the  misery  of  a  deli- 
cate nature  suddenly  filled  with  the  cle3r  assurance  of 
horrible  guilt.  Such  a  misery  no  waking  but  one  that 
annihilated  the  past  could  ever  console.  Yes,  there  is 
5'et  an  awaking — if  a  man  might  but  attain  unto  it — an 
awaking  into  a  region  whose  very  fields  are  full  of  the 
harmony  sovereign  to  console,  not  merely  for  having 


150  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

suffered — that  needs   little   consoling — but   for   having 
inflicted  the  deepest  wrong. 

The  moment  Helen  was  out  of  sight  Leopold  drew  a 
small  silver  box  from  an  inner  pocket,  eyed  it  with  the 
eager  look  of  a  hungry  animal,  took  from  it  a  portion 
of  a  certain  something,  put  it  in  his  mouth,  closed  his 
eyes,. and  lay  still. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HELEN     WITH    A    SECRET. 

HEN  Helen  came  out  into  the  corridor  she  saw 
that  the  day  was  breaking.  A  dim,  dreary- 
light  filled  the  dismal  house,  but  the  candle 
had  prevented  her  from  perceiving  the  little 
of  it  that  could  enter  that  room  withdrawn.  A  pang 
of  fear  shot  to  her  soul,  and  like  a  belated  spectre 
or  a  roused  somnambulist  she  fled  across  the  park. 
It  was  all  so  like  a  horrible  dream,  from  which  she  must 
wake  in  bed  !  yet  she  knew  there  was  no  such  hope  for 
her.  Her  darling  lay  in  that  frightful  house,  and  if  any 
one  should  see  her  it  might  be  death  to  him.  But  it 
was  yet  very  early,  and  two  hours  would  pass  before 
any  of  the  workmen  would  be  on  their  way  to  the  new 
house.  Yet,  like  a  murderer  shaken  out  of  the  earth  by 
the  light,  she  fled.  When  she  was  safe  in  her  own 
room,  ere  she  could  get  into  bed,  she  once  more  turned 
deadly  sick,  and  next  knew  by  the  agonies  of  coming  to 
herself  that  she  had  fainted. 

A  troubled,  weary,  excited  sleep  followed.     She  woke 
with  many  a  start,  as  if  she  had  sinned  in  sleeping,  and 


152  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

instantly,  for  very  weariness,  dozed  off  again.  How- 
kind  is  weariness  sometimes  !  It  is  like  the  Father's 
hand  laid  a  little  heavy  on  the  heart  to  make  it  still. 
But  her  dreams  were  full  of  torture,  and  even  when  she 
had  no  definite  dream,  she  was  haunted  by  the  vague 
presence  of  blood.  It  was  considerably  past  her  usual 
time  for  rising  when  at  length  she  heard  her  maid  in 
the  room.  She  got  up  wearily,  but,  beyond  the  heaviest 
of  hearts  and  a  general  sense  of  misery,  nothing  ailed 
her ;  nor  even  did  her  head  ache. 

But  she  had  lived  an  age  since  she  woke  last ;  and  the 
wonder  was,  not  that  she  felt  so  different,  but  that  she 
should  be  aware  of  being  the  same  person  as  before 
notwithstanding  all  that  had  passed.  Her  business 
now  was  to  keep  herself  from  thinking  until  breakfast 
should  be  over.  She  must  hold  the  "  ebony  box"  of 
last  night  close  shut  even  from  her  own  eyes,  lest  the 
demons  of  which  it  was  full  should  rush  out  and  darken 
the  world  about  her.  She  hurried  to  her  bath  for 
strength  ;  the  friendly  water  would  rouse  her  to  the 
present,  make  the  past  recede  like  a  dream,  and  give  her 
courage  to  face  the  future.  Her  very  body  seemed  de- 
filed by  the  knowledge  that  was  within  it.  Alas  !  how 
must  poor  Leopold  feel  then  !     But  she  must  not  think. 

All  the  time  she  was  dressing  her  thoughts  kept  ho- 
vering round  the  awful  thmg  like  moths  around  a  foul 
flame,  from  which  she  could  not  drive  them  away. 
Ever  and  again  she  said  to  herself  that  she  must  not, 
yet  ever  and  again  she  found  herself  peeping  through 
the  chinks  of  the  thought-chamber  at  the  terrible  thing 


HELEN    WITH    A    SECRET.  1 53 

inside — the  form  of  which  she  could  not  see — saw  only 
the  color — red — red,  mingled  with  ghastly  whiteness.  In 
all  the  world  her  best-loved,  her  brother,  the  child  of 
her  grand  father,  was  the  only  one  who  knew  how  that 
thing  came  there. 

But  while  Helen's  being  was  in  such  tumult  that  she 
could  never  more  be  the  cool,  indifferent,  self-content- 
ed person  she  had  hitherto  been,  her  old  habits  and 
forms  of  existence  were  now  of  endless  help  to  the  re- 
taining of  her  composure  and  the  covering  of  her  secret. 
A  dim  gleam  of  gladness  woke  in  her  at  the  sight  of  the 
unfinished  cap,  than  which  she  could  not  have  a  better 
excuse  for  her  lateness,  and  when  she  showed  it  to  her 
aunt  with  the  wish  of  many  happy  returns  of  the  day,  no 
second  glance  from  ^Irs.  Ramshorn  added  to  her  un- 
easiness. 

But  oh  !  how  terribly  the  time  crept  in  its  going  !  for 
she  dared  not  approach  the  deserted  house  while  the 
daylight  kept  watching  it  like  a  dog.  And  what  if 
Leopold  should  have  destroyed  himself  in  the  madness 
of  his  despair  before  she  could  go  to  him  !  She  had  not 
a  friend  to  help  her.  George  Bascombe  ? — she  shud- 
dered at  the  thought  of  him.  With  his  grand  ideas  of 
duty,  he  would  be  for  giving  up  Leopold  that  very  mo- 
ment !  Naturally  the  clergyman  was  the  one  to  go  to 
— and  Mr.  Wingfold  had  himself  done  wrong.  But  he 
had  confessed  it !  No — he  was  a  poor  creature,  and 
would  not  hold  his  tongue  !  She  shook  at  every  knock 
at  the  door,  every  ring  at  the  bell,  lest  it  should  be  the 
police.     To  be  sure  he  had  been  comparatively  little 


154  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

there,  and  naturally  they  would  seek  him  first  atGolds- 
wyre  ;  but  where  next  ?  At  Glaston,  of  course.  Every 
time  a  servant  entered  the  room  she  turned  away  lest 
her  ears  should  make  her  countenance  a  traitor.  The 
police  might  be  watching  the  house,  and  might  follow  her 
when  she  went  to  him  !  With  her  opera-glass  she  ex- 
amined the  meadow,  then  ran  to  the  bottom  of  the  gar- 
den, and  lying  down,  peered  over  the  sunk  fence.  But 
not  a  human  being  was  in  sight.  Next  she  put  on  her 
bonnet  with  the  pretence  of  shopping,  to  see  if  there 
were  any  suspicious-looking  persons  in  the  street.  But 
she  did  not  meet  a  single  person  unknown  to  her  be- 
tween her  aunt's  door  and  Mr.  Drew  the  linen-draper's. 
There  she  bought  a  pair  of  gloves,  and  walked  quietly 
back,  passing  the  house,  and  going  on  to  the  Abbey, 
without  meeting  one  person  at  whom  she  had  to  look 
twice. 

All  the  time  her  consciousness  was  like  a  single  in- 
tense point  of  light  in  the  middle  of  a  darkness  it  could 
do  nothing  to  illuminate.  She  knew  nothing  but  that 
her  brother  lay  in  that  horrible  empty  house,  and  that, 
if  his  words  were  not  the  ravings  of  a  maniac,  the  law, 
whether  it  yet  suspected  him  or  not,  was  certainly  alter 
him,  and  if  it  had  not  yet  struck  upon  his  trail,  was 
every  moment  on  the  point  of  finding  it,  and  must 
sooner  or  later  come  up  with  him.  She  must  save  him  — 
all  that  was  left  of  him  to  save  !  But  poor  Helen  knew 
very  little  about  saving. 

One  thing  more  she  became  suddenly  aware  of  as  she 
re-entered  the  house — the  possession  of  a  power  of  dis- 


HELEN    WITH    A    SECRET.  1 55 

simulation,  of  hiding  herself,  hitherto  strange  to  her, 
for  hitherto  she  had  had  nothing,  hardU'even  a  passing 
dislike,  to  conceal.  The  consciousness  brought  only  ex- 
ultation with  it,  for  her  nature  was  not  yet  delicate 
enough  to  feel  the  jar  of  the  thought  that  neither  words 
nor  looks  must  any  more  be  an  index  to  what  lay 
within  her. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A     DAYLIGHT      VISIT. 

i^UT  she  could  not  rest.  When  would  the  wea 
ry  day  be  over,  and  the  longed-for  rather 
than  welcome  night  appear  ?  Again  she 
went  into  the  garden,  and  down  to  the 
end  of  it,  and  looked  out  over  the  meadow.  Not 
a  creature  was  in  sight  except  a  red  and  white  cow,  a 
child  gathering  buttercups,  and  a  few  rooks  crossing 
from  one  field  to  another.  It  was  a  glorious  day  ;  the 
sun  seemed  the  very  centre  of  conscious  peace.  And 
now  first,  strange  to  say,  Helen  began  to  know  the  bliss 
of  bare  existence  under  a  divine  sky,  in  the  midst  of  a 
divine  air,  the  two  making  a  divine  summer,  which 
throbbed  with  the  presence  of  the  creative  spirit — but  as 
something  apart  from  her  now,  something  she  had  had 
but  had  lost,  which  could  never  more  be  hers.  How 
could  she  ever  be  glad  again,  with  such  a  frightful  fact 
in  her  soul  !  Away  there  beyond  those  trees  lay  her 
unhappy  brother  in  the  lonely  house,  now  haunted  in- 
deed. Perhaps  he  lay  there  dead  !  The  horrors  of  the 
morning  or  his  own  hand  might  have  slain  him.     She 


A    DAYLIGHT   VISIT.  1 57 


must  go  to  him.     She  would  defy  the  very  sun,  and  go 
in  the  face  of  the  universe.     Was  he  not  her  brother  ? — 
Was  there  no  help  anywhere  ?  no  mantle  for  this  sense 
of  soul-nakedness  that  had  made  her  feel  as  if  her  awful 
secret  might  be   read   a   mile  away,  lying  crimson  and 
livid  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  .'^     She  dared  hardly 
think  of  it,  lest  the  very  act  should  betray  the  thing  of 
darkness  to  the  world  of  light  around   her.     Nothing 
but  the  atmosphere  of    another   innocent   soul   could 
shield  hers,  and   she  had  no  friend.     What  did  people 
do  when  their  brothers  did  awful  deeds  ?   She  had  heard 
of  praying  to  God — had  indeed  herself  told  her  brother 
to  pray,  but  it  was  all  folly — worse,  priestcraft.     As  if 
such  things  anc/ 3.  God  could  exist  together  !    Yet,  even 
with  the  thought  of  denial  in  her  mind,  she  looked  up, 
and  gazed  earnestly  into  the  wide,    innocent,    mighty 
space,  as  if  by  searching  she  might  find  some  one.     Per- 
haps she  ought  to  pra^^     She  could  see  no  likelihood  of 
a  God,  and  yet  something  pushed  her  towards  prayer. 
What  if  all  this  had  come  upon  her  and  Poldie  because 
she  never  prayed  I     If  there  were  such  horrible  things 
in  the  world,  although  she   had  never  dreamed  of  them 
— if  they  could  come  so  near  her,  into  her  very  souJ, 
making  her  feel  like  a  murderess,  mJght  there  not  be  a 
God  also,  though  she  knew  nothing  of  his  whereabouts 
or  how  to  reach  him  and  gain  a  hearing.^     Certainly  if 
things  went  with  such  hellish  possibilities  at  the  heart 
of  them,  and  there  was  no  hand  at  all  to  restrain  or  guide 
or  restore,  the  world  was  a  good  deal  worse  place  than 
either  the  methodists  or  the  positivists  made  it  out  to 


158  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

be.  In  the  form  of  feelings,  not  of  words,  hardly  even 
of  thoughts,  things  like  these  passed  through  her  mind 
as  she  stood  on  the  top  of  the  sunk  fence  and  gazed 
across  the  flat  of  sunny  green  before  her.  She  could 
almost  have  slain  herself  to  be  rid  of  her  know- 
ledge and  the  awful  consciousness  that  was  its  result. 
She  would  have  found  no  difficulty  in  that  line  of  Mac- 
beth, "To  know  my  deed, 'twere  best  not  know  my- 
self."— But  all  this  time  there  was  her  brother  !  She 
must  go  to  him.  "God  hide  me!"  she  cried  within 
her.  "  But  how  can  he  hide  me,"  she  thought, 
"  when  I  am  hiding  a  murderer  ?"  "  O  God  !"  she  cried 
again,  and  this  time  in  an  audible  murmur,  "  I  am  his 
sister,  thou  knowest !"  Then  she  turned,  walked  back 
to  the  house,  and  sought  her  aunt. 

"  I  have  got  a  little  headache,"  she  said,  quite  coolly, 
"  and  I  want  a  long  walk.  Don't  wait  luncheon  for  me. 
It  is  such  a  glorious  day  !  I  shall  go  by  the  Millpool 
road,  and  across  the  park.  Good-by  till  tea,  or  perhaps 
dinner-time  even." 

"  Hadn't  you  better  have  a  ride  and  be  back  to  lun- 
cheon ?  I  shan't  want  Jones  to-day,"  said  her  aunt 
mournfully,  who,  although  she  had  almost  given  up 
birthdays,  thought  her  niece  need  not  quite  desert  her 
t?  on  the  disagreeable  occasion. 

"  I'm  not  m  the  humor  for  riding,  aunt.  Nothing 
will  do  me  good  but  a  walk.  I  shall  put  some  luncheon 
in  my  bag." 

She  went  quietly  out  by  the  front  door,  walked  slow- 
ly, softly,  statelily  along  the  street  and  out  of  the  town. 


A    DAYLIGHT   VISIT.  159 


and  entered  the  park  by  the  lodge-gate.  She  saw  Ra- 
chel at  her  work  in  the  kitchen  as  she  passed,  and  heard 
her  singing  in  a  low  and  weak  but  very  sweet  voice, 
which  went  to  her  heart  like  a  sting,  making  the  tall, 
handsome,  rich  lady  envy  the  poor  distorted  atom  who, 
through  all  the  fogs  of  her  winter,  had  yet  something 
in  her  that  sought  such  utterance.  But,  indeed,  if  all 
her  misery  had  been  swept  away  like  a  dream,  Helen 
might  yet  have  envied  the  dwarf  ten  times  more  than 
she  did  now,  had  she  but  known  how  they  stood  com- 
pared with  each  other.  For  the  being  of  Helen  to  that 
of  Rachel  was  as  a  single,  untwinned  primary  cell  to  a 
finished  brain  ;  as  the  peeping  of  a  chicken  to  the  song 
of  a  lark — I  had  almost  said,  to  a  sonata  of  Beethoven. 

"  Good-day,  Rachel,"  she  said,  calling  as  she  passed, 
in  a  kindly,  even  then  rather  condescending  voice, 
through  the  open  door,  where  a  pail  of  water,  just  set 
down,  stood  rocking  the  sun  on  its  heaving  surface,  and 
flashing  it  out  again  into  the  ocean  of  the  light.  It  seem- 
ed to  poor  Helen  a  squalid  abode,  but  it  was  a  home-like 
palace,  and  fairily  furnished  in  comparison  with  the 
suburban  villa  and  shop-upholstery  which  typified  the 
house  of  her  spirit — now  haunted  by  a  terrible  secret 
walking  through  its  rooms,  and  laying  a  bloody  hand 
upon  all  their  whitenesses. 

There  was  no  sound  all  the  way  as  she  went  but  the 
noise  of  the  birds  and  an  occasional  clank  from  the  new 
building  far  away.  At  last,  with  beating  heart  and 
scared  soul,  she  was  within  the  high  garden-wall,  mak- 
ing her  way  through  the  rank  growth   of  weeds  and 


l6o  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

bushes  to  the  dismal  house.  She  entered  trembHng, 
and  the  air  felt  as  if  death  had  been  before  her.  Hard- 
ly would  her  limbs  carry  her,  but  with  slow  step  she 
reached  the  hidden  room.  He  lay  as  she  had  left  him. 
Was  he  asleep,  or  dead  }  She  crept  near  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  forehead.  He  started  to  his  feet  in  an 
agony  of  fright.  She  soothed  and  reassured  him  as 
best  she  was  able.     When  the  paroxysm  relaxed, 

"  You  didn't  whistle,"  he  said. 

"  No  ;  I  forgot,"  answered  Helen,  shocked  at  her  own 
carelessness.  "  But  if  I  had,  you  would  not  have  heard 
me  :  you  were  fast  asleep." 

"  A  good  thing  I  was  !  And  yet  no  !  I  wish  I  had 
heard  you,  for  then  b}'-  this  time  I  should  have  been  be- 
yond their  reach." 

Impulsively  he  showed  her  the  short,  dangerous-look- 
ing weapon  he  carried.  Helen  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  take  it,  but  he  hurriedly  replaced  it  in   his  pocket. 

"  I  will  find  some  water  for  you  to  wash  with," 
said  Helen.  "  There  used  to  be  a  well  in  the  garden,  I 
remember.     I  have  brought  you  a  shirt." 

With  some  difficulty  she  found  the  well,  all  but  lost 
in  matted  weeds  under  an  iv5^-tod,  and  in  the  saucer  of 
a  flower-pot  she  carried  him  some  water,  and  put  the 
garment  with  the  horrible  spot  in  her  bag,  to  take -it 
away  and  destroy  it.  Then  she  made  him  eat  and  drink. 
He  did  whatever  she  told  him,  with  a  dull  yet  doglike 
obedience.  His  condition  was  much  changed  ;  he  had 
a  stupefied  look,  and  seemed  only  half  awake  to  his  ter- 
rible situation.     Yet  he  answered  what  questions  she 


A   DAYLIGHT    VISIT.  l6l 

put  to  him  even  too  readily — with  an  indifferent  matter- 
of-factness,  indeed,  more  dreadful  than  any  most  passion- 
ate outburst.  But  at  the  root  of  the  apparent  apathy 
lay  despair  and  remorse — weary,  like  gorged  and  sleep- 
ing tigers  far  back  in  their  dens.  Only  the  dull  torpedo 
of  misery  was  awake,  lying  motionless  on  the  bottom  of 
the  deepest  pool  of  his  spirit. 

The  mood  was  favorable  to  the  drawing  of  his  story 
from  him,  but  there  are  more  particulars  in  the  narra- 
tive I  am  now  going  to  give  than  Helen  at  that  time 
learned. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

Leopold's  story. 

HILE  yet  a  mere  boy,  scarcely  more  than  six- 
teen, Leopold  had  made  acquaintance  with 
the  family  of  a  certain  manufacturer,  who, 
having  retired  from  business  with  a  rapidly 
gained  fortune,  had  some  years  before  purchased  an 
estate  a  few  miles  from  Goldswyre,  his  uncle's  place. 
Their  settling  in  the  neighborhood  was  not  welcome  to 
the  old-fashioned,  long-rooted  family  of  the  Lingards  ; 
but  although  they  had  not  called  upon  them,  they 
could  not  help  meeting  them  occasionally.  Leopold's 
association  with  them  commenced  just  after  he  had  left 
Eton,  between  which  time  and  his  going  up  to  Cam- 
bridge he  spent  a  year  in  reading  wilh  his  cousins'  tutor. 
It  was  at  a  ball  he  first  saw  Emmeline,  the  eldest  of  the 
family.  She  had  but  lately  returned  from  a  school  at 
which  from  the  first  she  had  had  for  her  bedfellow  a  black 
ewe.  It  was  not  a  place  where  any  blackness  under 
that  of  pitch  was  likely  to  attract  notice,  being  one  of 
those  very  ordinary  and  very  common  schools  where 
every  thing  is  done  that  is  done,  first  for  manners,  then 


LEOPOLD'S    STORY.  163 


for  accomplishments,  and  lastly  for  information,  leaving 
all  the  higher  faculties  and  endowments  of  the  human 
being  as  entirely  unconsidered  as  if  they  had  no  ex- 
istence. Taste,  feeling,  judgment,  imagination,  con- 
science, are  in  such  places  left  to  look  after  themselves, 
and  the  considerations  presented  to  them  and  duties 
required  of  them  as  religious,  are  only  fitted  to  lower 
still  further  such  moral  standard  as  they  may  possess. 
Schools  of  this  kind  send  out,  as  their  quota  of  the  supply 
of  mothers  for  the  ages  to  come,  young  women  who  will 
consult  a  book  of  etiquette  as  to  what  is  lady-like  ;  who 
always  think  what  is  the  mode,  never  what  is  beautiful ; 
who  read  romances  in  which  the  wickedness  is  equalled 
only  by  the  shallowness  ;  who  write  questions  to  weekly 
papers  concerning  points  of  behavior  ;  and  place  their 
whole  or  chief  delight  in  making  themselves  attractive 
to  men.  Some  such  girls  look  lady-like  and  interesting, 
and  many  of  them  are  skilled  in  the  arts  that  meet  their 
fullest  development  in  a  nature  whose  sense  of  existence 
is  rounded  by  its  own  reflection  in  the  mirror  of  a  self- 
consciousness  falsified  by  vanity.  Once  understood, 
they  are  for  a  sadness  or  a  loathing,  after  the  nature  that 
understands  them  ;  till  then,  they  are  to  the  beholder 
such  as  they  desire  to  appear,  while  under  the  fair  out- 
side lies  a  nature  whose  vulgarity,  if  the  most  thorough 
of  changes  do  not  in  the  mean  time  supervene,  will  man- 
ifest itself  hideously  on  the  approach  of  middle  age,  that 
is,  by  the  time  when  habituation  shall  have  destroyed 
the  restraints  of  diffidence.  Receiving  ever  fresh  and 
best  assurance  of  their  own  consequence  in  the  atten- 


l64  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

tion  and  admiration  of  men,  sucli  girls  are  seldom  ca- 
pable of  any  real  attachment,  and  the  marvel  is  that  so 
few  of  them  comparatively  disgrace  themselves  after 
marriage. 

Whether  it  was  the  swarthy  side  of  his  nature,  early 
ripened  under  the  hot  Indian  sun,  that  found  itself  irre- 
sistibly drawn  to  the  widening  of  its  humanity  in  the 
flaxen  fairness  of  Emmeline,  or  the  Saxon  element  in 
him  seeking  back  to  its  family — it  might  indeed  have 
been  both,  our  nature  admitting  of  such  marvellous  com- 
plexity in  its  unity — he  fell  in  love  with  her,  if  not  in 
the  noblest  yet  in  a  very  genuine  though  at  the  same 
time  very  passionate  way  ;  and  as  she  had,  to  use  a 
Scots  proverb,  a  crop  for  all  corn,  his  attentions  were 
acceptable  to  her.  Had  she  been  true-hearted  enough 
to  know  anything  of  that  love  whose  name  was  forever 
suffering  profanation  upon  her  lips,  she  would,  being  at 
least  a  year  and  a  half  older  than  he,  have  been  too 
much  of  a  woman  to  encourage  his  approaches — would 
have  felt  he  was  a  boy  and  must  not  be  allowed  to  fancy 
himself  a  man.  But  to  be  just,  he  did  look  to  English  eyes 
older  than  he  was.  And  then  he  was  very  handsome,  dis- 
tinguished-looking, of  a  good  family,  which  could  in  no 
sense  be  said  of  her,  and  with  high  connections — at  the 
same  time  a  natural  contrast  to  herself,  and  personally 
attractive  to  her.  The  first  moment  she  saw  his  great 
black  eyes  blaze,  she  accepted  the  homage,  laid  it  on  the 
altar  of  her  self-worship,  and  ever  after  sought  to  see 
th'em  lighted  up  afresh  in  worship  of  her  only  divinity. 
To  be  feelingly  aware  of  her  power  over  him,  to  play 


LEOPOLD'S    STORY.  165 


upon  him  as  on  an  instrument,  to  make  his  cheek  pale 
or  glow,  his  eyes  flash  or  fill  as  she  pleased,  was  a  game 
almost  too  delightful. 

One  of  the  most  potent  means  for  producing  the  hu- 
mano-atmospheric  play  in  which  her  soul  thus  rejoiced, 
and  one  whose  operation  was  to  none  better  known 
than  to  Emmeline,  was  jealousy,  and  for  its  generation 
she  had  all  possible  facilities,  for  there  could  not  be  a 
woman  in  regard  of  whom  jealousy  was  more  justifiable 
on  any  ground  except  that  of  being  worth  it.  So  far  as 
it  will  reach,  however,  it  must  be  remembered,  in  mitiga- 
tion  of  judgment,  that  she  had  no  gauge  in  herself  equal 
to  the  representation  of  a  tithe  of  the  misery  whose  signs 
served  to  lift  her  to  the  very  Paradise  of  falsehood  : 
she  knew  not  what  she  did,  and  possibl}^  knowledge 
might  have  found  in  her  some  pity  and  abstinence. 
But  when  a  woman,  in  her  own  nature  cold,  takes  de- 
light in  rousing  passion,  she  will,  selfishly  confident  in 
her  own  safety,  go  to  strange  lengths  in  kindling  and 
fanning  the  flame  which  is  the  death  of  the  other. 

It  is  far  from  my  intention  to  follow  the  disagreeable 
topic  across  the  pathless  swamp  through  which  an 
elaboration  of  its  phases  would  necessarily  drag  me.  Of 
morbid  anatomy,  save  for  the  setting  forth  of  cure,  I  am 
not  fond,  and  here  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  of  cure. 
What  concerns  me  as  a  narrator  is,  that  Emmeline  con 
soled  and  irritated  and  reconsoled  Leopold,  until  she 
had  him  her  very  slave,  and  the  more  her  slave  that  by 
that  time  he  knew  something  of  her  character.  The 
knowledge  took  from  him  what  little  repose  she  had  left 


l66  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

him  ;  he  did  no  more  good  at  school,  and  went  to  Cam- 
bridge with  the  conviction  that  the  woman  to  whom  he 
had  given  his  soul  would  be  doing  things  in  his  absence 
the  sight  of  which  would  drive  him  mad.  Yet  some- 
how he  continued  to  live,  reassured  now  and  then  by 
the  loving  letters  she  wrote  to  him,  and  relieving  his 
own  heart  while  he  fostered  her  falsehood  by  the 
passionate  replies  he  made  to  them. 

From  a  sad  accident  of  his  childhood,  he  had  become 
acquainted  with  something  of  the  influences  of  a  certain 
baneful  drug,  to  the  use  of  which  one  of  his  attendants 
was  addicted,  and  now  at  college,  partly  from  curiosity, 
partly  from  a  desire  to  undergo  its  effects,  but  chiefly 
in  order  to  escape  from  ever  gnawing  and  passionate 
thought,  he  began  to  make  experiments  in  its  use. 
Experiment  called  for  repetition — in  order  to  verifica- 
tion, said  the  fiend — and  repetition  led  first  to  a  long- 
ing after  its  effects,  and  next  to  a  mad  appetite  for 
the  thing  itself  ;  so  that  by  the  time  of  which  my  narra- 
tive treats  he  was  on  the  verge  of  absolute  slavery  to 
its  use,  and  in  imminent  peril  of  having  to  pass  the  rest 
of  his  life  in  alternations  of  ecstasy  and  agony,  divided 
by  dull  spaces  of  misery,  the  ecstasies  growing  rarer  and 
rarer,  and  the  agonies  more  and  more  frequent,  intense, 
and  lasting;  until  at  length  the  dethroned  Apollo 
found  himself  chained  to  a  pillar  of  his  own  ruined 
temple,  which  the  sirocco  was  fast  filling  with  desert 
sand. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 


LEOPOLD  S    STORY    CONCLUDED. 


pE  knew  from  her  letters  that  they  were  going- 
to  give  a  ball,  at  which  as  many  as  pleased 
should  be  welcome  in  fancy  dresses,  and 
masked  if  they  chose.  The  night  before  it 
he  had  a  dream,  under  the  influence  of  his  familiar  no 
doubt,  which  made  him  so  miserable  and  jealous  that 
he  longed  to  see  her  as  a  wounded  man  longs  for  water, 
and  the  thought  arose  of  going  down  to  the  ball,  not 
exactly  in  disguise,  for  he  had  no  mind  to  act  a  part, 
but  masked  so  that  he  should  not  be  recognized  as  unin- 
vited, and  should  have  an  opportunity  of  watching  Em- 
meline,  concerning  whose  engagement  with  a  young 
cavalry  officer  there  had  lately  been  reports,  which, 
however,  before  his  dream,  had  caused  him  less  uneasi- 
ness than  many  such  preceding.  The  same  moment  the 
thought  was  a  resolve. 

I  must  mention  that  no  one  whatever  knew  the  de- 
gree of  his  intimacy  with  Emmeline,  or  that  he  had  any 
ground  for  considering  her  engaged  to  him.     Secrecy 


l68  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


added  much  to  the  zest  of  Emmeline's  pleasures. 
Every  one  knew  that  he  was  a  devoted  admirer — but 
therein  to  be  classed  with  a  host. 

For  concealment  he  contented  himself  with  a  large 
travelling  cloak,  a  tall  felt  hat,  and  a  black  silk  mask. 

He  entered  the  grounds  with  an  arrival  of  guests,  and, 
knowing  the  place  perfectly,  contrived  to  see  something 
of  her  behavior  while  he  watched  for  an  opportunity 
of  speaking  to  her  alone — a  quest  of  unlikely  success. 
Hour  after  hour  he  watched,  and  all  the  time  never 
spoke  or  was  spoken  to. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  mode  of  operation 
of  the  drug  to  which  I  have  referred,  are  aware  that  a 
man  may  be  fully  under  its  influences  without  betraying 
to  the  ordinary  observer  that  he  is  in  a  condition  differ- 
ing from  that  of  other  men.  But,  in  the  living  dream 
wherein  he  walks,  his  feeling  of  time  and  of  space  is  so 
enlarged,  or  perhaps,  I  rather  think,  so  subdivided  to 
the  consciousness,  that  every  thing  about  him  seems 
infinite  both  in  duration  and  extent  ;  the  action  of  a 
second  has  in  it  a  multitudinous  gradation  of  progress, 
and  a  line  of  space  is  marked  out  into  millionths,  of 
every  one  of  which  the  consciousness  takes  note.  At 
the  same  time  his  senses  are  open  to  every  impression 
from  things  around  him,  only  they  appear  to  him  in  a 
strangely  exalted  metamorphosis,  the  reflex  of  his  own 
mental  exaltation  either  in  bliss  or  torture,  while  the 
fancies  of  the  man  mingle  with  the  facts  thus  intro- 
duced and  modify  and  are  in  turn  modified  by  them  ; 
whereby  out  of  the  chaos  arises  the  mountain  of  an 


LEOPOLD'S    STORY   CONCLUDED.  169 

Earthly  Paradise,  whose  roots  are  in  the  depths  of  hell ; 
and  whether  the  man  be  with  the  divine  air  and  th;? 
clear  rivers  and  the  thousand-hued  flowers  on  the  top, 
or  down  in  the  ice-lake  with  the  tears  frozqn  to  hard 
lumps  in  the  hollows  of  his  eyes  so  that  he  can  no  more 
have  even  the  poor  consolation  of  weeping,  is  but  thft 
turning  of  a  hair,  so  far  at  least  as  his  will  has  to  do  with 
it.  The  least  intrusion  of  any  thing  painful,  of  any  jar 
that  can  not  be  wrought  into  the  general  harmony  <A 
the  vision,  will  suddenly  alter  its  character,  and  from  the 
seventh  heaven  of  speechless  bliss  the  man  may  falJ 
plumb  down  into  gulfs  of  horrible  and  torturing,  it  may 
be  loathsome  imaginings. 

Now  Leopold  had  taken  a  dose  of  the  drug  on  his 
journey,  and  it  was  later  than  usual,  probably  because 
of  the  motion,  ere  it  began  to  take  effect.  He  had  in- 
deed ceased  to  look  for  any  result  from  it,  when  all  at 
once,  as  he  stood  among  the  laburnums  and  lilacs  of 
a  rather  late  spring,  something  seemed  to  burst  in  his 
brain,  and  that  moment  he  was  Endymion  waiting  for 
Diana  in  her  interlunar  grove,  while  the  music  of  the 
spheres  made  the  blossoms  of  a  stately  yet  flowering 
forest  tremble  all  with  conscious  delight. 

Emboldened  by  his  new  condition,  he  drew  nigh  the 
house.  They  were  then  passing  from  the  ball  to  the 
supper  room,  and  he  found  the  tumult  so  distasteful  to 
his  mood  of  still  ecstasy  that  he  would  not  have  entered 
had  he  not  remembered  that  he  had  in  his  pocket  a  note 
ready  if  needful  to  slip  into  her  hand,  containing  only 
the  words,  "  Meet  me  for  one  long  minute  at  the  circle  '• 


170  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

— a  spot  well  known  to  both.  He  threw  his  cloak  Span- 
ish fashion  over  his  left  shoulder,  slouched  his  hat,  and 
entering,  stood  in  a  shadowy  spot  she  must  pass  in  going 
to  or  from  the  supper  room.  There  he  waited,  with  the 
note  hid  in  his  hand,  a  long  time,  yet  not  a  weary  one, 
such  visions  of  loveliness  passed  before  his  entranced 
gaze.  At  length  she  also  passed,  lovely  as  the  Diana 
whose  dress  she  had  copied — not  quite  so  perfectly  as 
she  had  abjured  her  manners.  She  leaned  trustingly 
on  the  arm  of  some  one,  but  Leopold  never  even  looked 
at  him.  He  slid  the  note  into  her  hand,  which  hung 
ungloved  as  inviting  confidences.  With  an  instinct 
quickened  and  sharpened  tenfold  by  much  practice,  her 
fingers  instantly  closed  upon  it,  but  not  a  muscle  be- 
longing to  any  other  part  cf  her  betrayed  the  intrusion 
of  a  foreign  body  :  I  do  not  believe  her  heart  gave  one 
beat  the  more  to  the  next  minute.  She  passed  gracefully 
on,  her  swan's-neck  shining  ;  and  Leopold  hastened  out 
to  one  of  the  windows  of  the  ball-room,  there  to  feast 
his  eyes  upon  her  loveliness.  But  when  he  caught  sight 
of  her  whirling  in  the  waltz  with  the  officer  of  dragoons 
whose  name  he  had  heard  coupled  with  hers,  and  saw 
her  flash  on  him  the  light  and  power  of  eyes  which 
were  to  him  the  windows  of  all  the  heaven  he  knew,  as 
they  swam  together  in  the  joy  of  the  rhythm,  of  the  mo- 
tion, of  the  music,  suddenly  the  whole  frame  of  the 
dream  wherein  he  wandered  trembled,  shook,  fell  down 
into  the  dreary  vaults  that  underlie  all  the  airy  castles 
that  have  other  foundation  than  the  will  of  the  eternal 
Builder.     With  the  suddenness  of  the  dark  that  follows 


LEOPOLD  S    STORY   CONCLUDED.  171 


the  lightning,  the  music  changed  to  a  dissonant  clash 
of  multitudinous  cymbals,  the  resounding  clang  of 
brazen  doors,  and  the  hundred-toned  screams  of  souls 
in  torture.  The  same  moment,  from  halls  of  infinite 
scope,  where  the  very  air  was  a  soft  tumult  of  veiled 
melodies  ever  and  anon  twisted  into  inextricable  knots 
of  harmony — under  whose  skyey  domes  he  swept  up- 
borne by  chords  of  sound  throbbing  up  against  great 
wings  mighty  as  thought,  yet  in  their  motions  as  easy 
and  subtle,  he  found  himself  lying  on  the  floor  of  a 
huge  vault,  whose  black  slabs  were  worn  into  many  hol- 
lows by  the  bare  feet  of  the  damned  as  they  went  and 
came  between  the  chambers  of  their  torture  opening  off 
upon  every  side,  whence  issued  all  kinds  of  sickening 
cries,  and  mingled  with  the  music  to  which,  with  whips 
of  steel,  hellish  executioners  urged  the  dance  whose 
every  motion  was  an  agony.  His  soul  fainted  within 
him,  and  the  vision  changed.  When  he  came  to  him- 
self, he  lay  on  the  little  plot  of  grass  among  the  lilacs 
and  laburnums  where  he  had  asked  Emmeline  to  meet 
him.  Fevered  with  jealousy  and  the  horrible  drug,  his 
mouth  was  parched  like  an  old  purse,  and  he  found 
himself  chewing  at  the  grass  to  ease  its  burning  and 
drought.  But  presently  the  evil  thing  resumed  its  sway, 
,  and  fancies  usurped  over  facts.  He  was  lying  in  an  In- 
dian jungle,  close  by  the  cave  of  a  beautiful  tigress, 
which  crouched  within,  waiting  only  the  first  sting  of 
reviving  hunger  to  devour  'him.  He  could  hear  her 
breathing  as  she  slept,  but  he  was  fascinated,  paralyzed, 
and   could   not    escape,    knowing    that,   even   if    with 


!72  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

mighty  effort  he  succeeded  in  moving  a  finger,  that 
motion  would  suffice  to  wake  her,  and  she  would  spring 
upon  him  and  tear  him  to  pieces.  Years  upon  years 
passed  thus,  and  still  he  lay  on  the  grass  in  the  jungle, 
and  still  the  beautiful  tigress  slept.  But  however  far 
apart  the  knots  upon  the  string  of  time  may  lie,  they 
must  pass :  an  angel  in  white  stood  over  him  ;  his 
fears  vanished;  the  waving  of  her  wings  cooled  him; 
and  she  was  the  angel  whom  he  had  loved,  and  lovec? 
from  all  eternity,  in  whom  was  his  ever-and-only  rest. 
She  lifted  him  to  his  feet,  she  gave  him  her  hand  :  they 
walked  away,  and  the  tigress  was  asleep  forever.  For 
miles  and  miles,  as  it  seemed  to  his  exaltation,  they 
wandered  away  into  the  woods,  to  wander  in  them  for- 
ever, the  same  violet  blue,  flashing  with  roseate  stars, 
forever  looking  in  through  the  tree-tops,  and  the  great 
leafy  branches  hushing,  ever  hushing  them,  as  with  the 
voices  of  child-watching  mothers,  into  peace,  whose 
depth  is  bliss. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  now  I  am  come  ?"  said  the 
angel. 

"  I  have  said  all.     I  am  at  rest,"  answered  the  mortal. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married  to  Captain  Hodges,"  said 
the  angel. 

And  with  the  word,  the  forest  of  heaven  vanished, 
and  the  halls  of  Eblis  did  not  take  their  place :  a 
worse  hell  was  there — the  cold  reality  of  an  earth  ab- 
jured, and  a  worthless  maiden  walking  by  his  side.  He 
stood  and  turned  to  her.  The  shock  had  mastered  the 
drug.     They  were  only  in  the  little  wooded  hollow,  a 


LEOPOLD'S    STORY   CONCLUDED.  1 73 

hundred  yards  from  the  house.  The  blood  throbbed  in 
his  head  as  from  the  piston  of  an  engine.  A  horrid 
sound  of  dance-music  was  in  his  ears.  Emmeline,  his 
own,  stood  in  her  white  dress,  looking  up  in  his  face, 
with  the  words  just  parted  from  her  lips,  "  I  am  going 
to  be  married  to  Captain  Hodges."  The  next  moment 
she  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  pulled  his  face  to 
hers,  and  kissed  him  and  clung  to  him.        f 

"  Poor  Leopold  !"  she  said,  and  looked  in  his  face 
with  her  electric  battery  at  full  power  ;  "  does  it  make 
him  miserable,  then  .-*  But  you  know  it  could  not  have 
gone  on  like  this  between  you  and  me  forever  !  It  was 
very  dear  while  it  lasted,  but  it  must  come  to  an  end." 

Was  there  a  glimmer  of  real  pity  and  sadness  in  those 
wondrous  eyes  ?  She  laughed — was  it  a  laugh  of  de- 
spair or  of  exultation  ? — and  hid  her  face  on  his  bosom. 
And  what  was  it  that  awoke  in  Leopold  ?  Had  the  drug 
resumed  its  power  over  him  ?  Was  it  rage  at  her  mock- 
ery, or  infinite  compassion  for  her  despair?  Would 
he  slay  a  demon,  or  ransom  a  spirit  from  hateful 
bonds  ?  Would  he  save  a  woman  from  disgrace  and 
misery  to  come  ?  or  punish  her  for  the  vilest  falsehood  ? 
Who  can  tell  ?  for  Leopold  himself  never  could.  What- 
ever the  feeling  was,  its  own  violence  erased  it  from  his 
memory,  and  left  him  with  a  knife  in  his  hand  and  Em- 
meline lying  motionless  at  his  feet.  It  was  a  knife  the 
Scotch  highlanders  call  a  skean-dhu,  sharp-pointed  as  a 
needle,  sharp-edged  as  a  razor,  and  with  one  blow  of  it 
he  had  cleft  her  heart,  and  she  never  cried  or  laughed 
any  more  in  that  body  whose  charms  she  had  degraded 


174  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

to  the  vile  servitude  of  her  vanity.  The  next  thing  he 
remembered  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  shaft  of  a 
deserted  coalpit,  ready  to  cast  himself  down.  Whence 
came  the  change  of  resolve  he  could  not  tell,  but  he 
threw  in  his  cloak  and  mask,  and  fled.  The  one 
thought  in  his  miserable  brain  was  his  sister.  Having 
murdered  one  woman,  he  was  fleeing  to  another  for 
refuge.     Hel^  would  save  him. 

How  he  had  found  his  way  to  his  haven  he  had  not 
an  idea.  Searching  the  newspapers,  Helen  learned  that 
a  week  had  elapsed  between  the  "  mysterious  murder  of 
a  young  lady  in  Yorkshire"  and  the  night  on  which  he 
came  to  her  window. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 


SISTERHOOD. 


ELL,  Poldie,  after  all  I  would  rather  be  you 
than  she  !"  cried  Helen  indignantly,  when 
she  had  learned  the  whole  story. 

It  was  far  from  the  wisest  thing  to  say,  but 
she  meant  it,  and  clasped  her  brother  to  her  bosom. 

Straightway  the  poor  fellow  began  to  search  for  all 
that  man  could  utter  in  excuse,  nay  in  justification,  not 
of  himself  but  of  the  woman  he  had  murdered,  appro- 
priating all  the  blame.  But  Helen  had  recognized  in 
Emmeline  the  selfishness  which  is  the  essential  murder- 
er, nor  did  it  render  her  more  lenient  towards  her  that 
the  same  moment,  with  a  start  of  horror,  she  caught  a 
transient  glimpse  of  the  same  in  herself.  But  the  dis- 
covery wrought  in  the  other  direction,  and  the  tender- 
ness she  now  lavished  upon  Leopold  left  all  his  hopes 
far  behind.  Her  brother's  sin  had  broken  wide  the  fee- 
bly flowing  springs  of  her  conscience,  and  she  saw  that 
in  idleness  and  ease  and  drowsiness  of  soul  she  had 
been   forgetting   and   neglecting  even   the   being  she 


I/' 


176  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


loved  best  in  the  universe.  In  the  rushing  confluence 
of  love,  truth,  and  indignation,  to  atone  for  years  of 
half-love,  half-indifference,  as  the  past  now  appeared  to 
her,  she  would  have  spoiled  him  terribly,  heaping  on 
him  caresses,  and  assurances  that  he  was  far  the 
less  guilty  and  the  more  injured  of  the  two  ;  but  Leo- 
pold's strength  was  exhausted,  and  he  fell  back  in  a 
faint. 

While  she  was  occupied  with  his  restoration,  many 
things  passed  through  her  mind.  Among  the  rest 
she  saw  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  look  after  him 
sufficiently  where  he  was,  that  the  difficulty  of  feed- 
ing him  even  would  be  great,  that  very  likely  he  was 
on  the  borders  of  an  illness,  when  he  would  require 
constant  attention,  that  the  danger  of  discovery  was 
great — in  short,  that  some  better  measures  must  be 
taken  for  his  protection  and  the  possibility  of  her  minis- 
trations. If  she  had  but  a  friend  to  consult  !  Ever  that 
thought  returned.  Alas  !  she  had  none  on  whose  coun- 
sel, or  discretion  either,  she  could  depend  !  When  at 
length  he  opened  his  e3^es,  she  told  him  she  must  leave 
him  now,  but  when  it  was  dark  she  would  come  again, 
and  stay  with  him  till  dawn.  Feebly  he  assented,  seem- 
ing but  half  aware  of  what  she  said,  and  again  closed  his 
eyes.  While  he  lay  thus  she  gained  possession  of  his 
knife.  It  left  its  sheath  behind  it,  and  she  put  it  naked 
in  her  pocket.  As  she  went  from  the  room,  feeling  like 
a  mother  abandoning  her  child  in  a  wolf-haunted  forest, 
his  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door  with  a  longing,  wild, 
hungry  look,  and  she  felt  the  look  following  her  still 


SISTERHOOD.  177 


through  the  wood  and  across  the  park  and  into  her 
chamber,  while  the  knife  in  her  pocket  felt  like  a  spell- 
bound demon  waiting  his  chance  to  work  them  both  a 
mischief.  She  locked  her  door  and  took  it  out,  and  as 
she  put  it  carefully  away,  fearful  lest  any  attempt  to  de- 
stroy»it  might  but  lead  to  its  discovery,  she  caught  sight 
of  her  brother's  name  engraved  in  full  upon  the  silver 
mounting  of  the  handle.  "  What  if  he  had  left  it  behind 
him  !"  she  thought  with  a  shudder. 

But  a  reassuring  strength  had  risen  in  her  mind  with 
Leopold's  disclosure.  More  than  once  on  her  way 
home  she  caught  herself  reasoning  that  the  poor  boy 
had  not  been  to  blame  at  all ;  that  he  could  not  help  it ; 
that  she  had  deserved  nothing  less.  Her  conscience 
speedily  told  her  that  in  consenting  to  such  a  thought 
she  herself  would  be  a  murderess.  Love  her  brother 
she  must  •  excuse  him  she  might,  for  honest  excuse  is 
only  justice  ;  but  to  uphold  the  deed  would  be  to  take 
the  part  of  hell  against  heaven.  Still  the  murder  did 
not,  would  not  seem  so  frightful  after  she  had  heard  the 
whole  tale,  and  she  found  it  now  required  far  less  effort 
to  face  her  aunt.  If  she  was  not  the  protectress  of  the 
innocent,  she  was  of  the  grievously  wronged,  and  the 
worst  wrong  done  him  was  the  crime  he  had  been 
driven  to  do.  She  lay  down  and  slept  until  dinner-time, 
woke  refreshed,  and  sustained  her  part  during  the  slow 
meal,  heartened  by  the  expectation  of  seeing  her  bro- 
ther again,  and  in  circumstances  of  less  anxiety,  when  the 
friendly  darkness  had  come  and  all  eyes  but  theivs  were 
closed.     She  talked  to  her  aunt  and  a  lady  who  dined 


178  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

with  them  as  if  she  had  the  freest  heart  in  the  world  ; 
the  time  passed  ;  the  converse  waned  ;  the  hour  arrived  ; 
adieus  were  said  ;  drowsiness  came.  All  the  world  of 
Glaston  was  asleep  ;  the  night  on  her  nest  was  brood- 
ing upon  the  egg  of  to-morrow  ;  the  moon  was  in  dark- 
ness ;  and  the  wind  was  blowing  upon  Helen's  hot,  fore- 
head as  she  slid  like  a  thief  across  the  park. 

Her  mind  was  in  a  tumult  of  mingled  feelings,  all 
gathered  about  the  form  of  her  precious  brother.  One 
moment  she  felt  herself  ministering  to  the  father  she 
had  loved  so  dearly,  in  protecting  his  son  ;  the  next,  the 
thought  of  her  father  had  vanished,  and  all  was  love 
for  the  boy  whose  memories  filled  the  shadow  of  her 
childhood  ;  about  whom  she  had  dreamed  night  after 
night  as  he  crossed  the  great  sea  to  come  to  her  ;  who 
had  crept  into  her  arms  timidly,  and  straightway  turned 
into  the  daintiest,  merriest  playmate  ;  who  had  charmed 
her  even  in  his  hot-blooded  rages,  when  he  rushed  at 
her  with  whatever  was  in  his  hand  at  the  moment. 
Then  she  had  laughed  and  dared  him,  now  she  shud- 
dered to  remember.  Again— and  this  was  the  feeling 
that  generally  prevailed— she  was  a  vessel  overflow- 
ing with  the  mere  woman-passion  of  protection  :  the 
wronged,  abused,  maddened,  oppressed,  hunted  human 
thing  was  dependent  upon  her,  and  her  alone,  for  any 
help  or  safety  he  was  ever  to  find.  Sometimes  it  was 
the  love  of  a  mother  for  her  sick  child  ;  sometimes  that 
of  a  tigress  crouching  over  her  wounded  cub  and  lick- 
ing its  hurts.  All  was  colored  with  admiration  of  his 
beauty  and  grace,  and  mingled  with  boundless  pity  for 


SISTERHOOD.  1 79 


their  sad  overclouding  and  defeature  !  Nor  was  the 
sense  of  wrong  to  herself  in  wrong  to  her  own  flesh  and 
blood  wanting.  The  sum  of  all  was  a  passionate  devo- 
lion  of  her  being  to  the  service  of  her  brother. 

I  suspect  that  at  root  the  loves  of  the  noble  wife,  the 
great-souled  mother,  and  the  true  sister,  are  one.  Any- 
how, they  are  all  but  glints  on  the  ruffled  waters  of  hu- 
manity of  the  one  changeless  enduring  Light. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE     SICK     CHAMBER. 

[]HE  had  reached  the  little  iron  gate,  which  hung 
on  one  hinge  only,  and  was  lifting  it  from 
the  ground  to  push  it  open,  when  sudden 
through  the  stillness  came  a  frightful  cry. 
Had  they  found  him  already?  Was  it  a  life-and-death 
struggle  going  on  within  ?  For  one  moment  she  stood 
rooted  ;  the  next  she  flew  to  the  door.  When  she 
entered  the  hall,  however,  the  place  was  silent  as  a 
crypt.  Could  it  have  been  her  imagination  ?  Again, 
curdling 'her  blood  with  horror,  came  the  tearing 
cry,  a  sort  of  shout  of  agony.  All  in  the  dark  she 
flew  up  the  stair,  calling  him  by  name,  fell  twice, 
rose  as  if  on  wings,  and  flew  again  until  she  reached 
the  room.  There  all  was  silence  and  darkness. 
With  trembling  hands  she  found  her  match-box  and 
struck  a  light,  uttering  all  the  time  every  sooth- 
ing word  she  could  think  of,  while  her  heart  qua- 
vered in  momentary  terror  of  another  shriek.  It 
came  just  as  the  match  flamed  up  in  her  fingers,  and  an 


THE   SICK    CHAMBER.  l8l 

answering  shriek  from  her  bosom  tore  its  way  through 
her  clenched  teeth,  and  she  shuddered  like  one  in  an 
ague.  There  sat  her  brother  on  the  edge  of  the  bed- 
stead, staring  before  him  with  fixed  eyes  and  terror- 
stricken  countenance.  He  had  not  heard  her  enter, 
and  saw  neither  the  hght  nor  her  who  held  it.  She 
made  haste  to  light  the  candle,  with  mighty  effort  talk- 
ing to  him  still,  in  gasps  and  chokings,  but  in  vain  :  the 
ghastly  face  continued  unchanged,  and  the  wide-open 
eyes  remained  fixed.  She  seated  herself  at  his  side 
and  threw  her  arms  around  him.  It  was  like  embracing 
a  marble  statue,  so  moveless,  so  irresponsive  was  he. 
But  presently  he  gave  a  kind  of  shudder,  the  tension  of 
his  frame  relaxed,  and  the  soul  which  had  been  ab- 
sorbed in  its  own  visions  came  forward  to  its  windows, 
cast  from  them  a  fleeting  glance,  then  dropped  the  cur- 
tains. 

"  Is  it  you,  Helen  ?"  he  said,  shuddering,  as  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  laid  his  head  on  her  shoulder.  His  breath 
was  like  that  of  a  furnace.  His  skin  seemed  on  fire. 
She  felt  his  pulse  :  it  was  galloping.  He  was  in  a  fever 
— brain-fever  probably — and  what  was  she  to  do  ?  A 
thought  came  to  her.  Yes,  it  was  the  only  possible 
thing.  She  would  take  him  home.  There,  with  the 
help  of  the  household,  she  might  have  a  chance  of  con- 
cealing him — a  poor  one,  certainly;  but  here,  how  was 
she  even  to  keep  him  to  the  house  in  his  raving  fits  ? 

"  Poldie,  dear  !"  she  said,  "  you  must  come  with  me. 
I  am  going  to  take  you  to  my  own  room, -where  I  can 


1 82  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


nurse  you  properly  and  need  not  leave  you.  Do  you 
think  you  could  walk  as  far?" 

•*  Walk  !     Yes  ;  quite  well  :  why  not  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  going  to  be  ill,  Poldie  ;  but, 
however  ill  you  may  feel,  you  must  promise  me  to  try 
to  make  as  little  noise  as  you  can,  and  never  cry  out  if 
you  can  help  it.  When  I  do  like  this,"  she  went  on, 
laying  her  finger  on  his  lips,  "  you  must  be  silent  alto- 
gether." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  tell  me,  Helen,  if  you  will 
only  promise  not  to  leave  me,  and,  when  they  come  for 
me,  to  give  me  poison." 

She  promised,  and  made  haste  to  obliterate  every  sign 
that  the  room  had  been  occupied.  She  then  took  his 
arm  and  led  him  out.  He  was  very  quiet — too  quiet  and 
submissive,  she  thought — seemed  sleepy,  revived  a  lit- 
tle when  they  reached  the  open  air,  presently  grew  ter- 
rified, and  kept  starting  and  looking  about  him  as  they 
crossed  the  park,  but  never  spoke  a  word.  By  the  door 
in  the  sunk  fence  they  reached  the  garden,  and  were 
soon  in  Helen's  chamber,  where  she  left  him  to  get  into 
bed  while  she  went  to  acquaint  her  aunt  of  his  presence 
in  the  house.  Hard  and  unreasonable,  like  most  human 
beings,  where  her  prejudices  were  concerned,  she  had, 
like  all  other  women,  sympathy  with  those  kinds  of  suf- 
fering which  by  experience  she  understood.  Mental  dis- 
tress was  beyond  her,  but  for  the  solace  of  another's 
pain  she  would  even  have  endured  a  portion  herself. 
When  therefore  she  heard  Helen's  story,  how  her  bro- 
ther had  come  to  her  window,  that  he  was  ill  with  brain- 


THE   SICK    CHAMBER.  I83 

fever  as  she  thought,  and  talked  wildly,  she  quite  ap- 
proved of  her  having  put  him  to  bed  in  her  own  room, 
and  would  have  got  up  to  help  in  nursing  him.  But 
Helen  persuaded  her  to  have  her  night's  rest,  and 
begged  her  to  join  with  her  in  warning  the  servants  not 
to  mention  his  presence  in  the  house,  on  the  ground  that 
it  might  get  abroad  that  he  was  out  of  his  mind.  They 
were  all  old  and  tolerably  faithful,  and  Leopold  had 
been  from  childhood  such  a  favorite  that  she  hoped 
thus  to  secure  their  silence. 

"  But,  child,  he  must  have  the  doctor,"  said  her  aunt. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  will  manage  him.  What  a  good  thing  old 
Mr.  Bird  is  gone  !  He  was  such  a  gossip  !  We  must 
call  in  the  new  doctor,  Mr.  Faber.  I  shall  see  that  he 
understands.  He  has  his  practice  to  make,  and  wil\ 
mind  what  I  say." 

"  Why,  child,  you  are  as  cunning  as  an  old  witch  !" 
said  her  aunt.  "  — It  is  very  awkward,"  she  went  on. 
*'  What  miserable  creatures  men  are — from  first  to  last ! 
Out  of  one  scrape  into  another  from  babies  to  old 
men  !  Would  you  believe  it,  my  dear  ? — your  uncle, 
one  of  the  best  of  men  and  most  exemplary  of  clergy- 
men— why,  I  had  to  put  on  his  stockings  for  him  every 
day  he  got  up  !  Not  that  my  services  stopped  there 
either,  I  can  tell  you  !  Latterly  I  wrote  more  than  half 
,  his  sermons  for  him.  He  never  would  preach  the  same 
sermon  twice,  you  see.  He  made  that  a  point  of 
honor  ;  and  the  consequence  was  that  at  last  he  had  to 
come  to  'me.  His  sermons  were  nothing  the  losers,  I 
trust,   or   our  congregation   either.     I   used  the  same 


l84  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

commentaries  he  did,  and  you  would  hardly  believe  how 
much  I  enjoyed  the  work. — Poor  dear  boy  !  we  must  do 
what  we  can  for  him." 

"  I  will  call  you  if  I  find  it  necessary,  aunt.  I  must  go 
to  him  now,  for  he  can  not  bear  me  out  of  his  sight. 
Don't,  please,  send  for  the  doctor  till  I  see  you  again." 

When  she  got  back  to  her  room,  to  her  great  relief 
she  found  Leopold  asleep.  The  comfort  of  the  bed 
after  his  terrible  exhaustion  and  the  hardships  he  had 
undergone,  had  combined  with  the  drug  under  whose 
influence  he  had  more  or  less  been  ever  since  first  he 
appeared  at  Helen's  window,  and  he  slept  soundly. 

But  when  he  woke  he  was  in  a  high  fever,  and  Mr. 
Faber  was  summoned.  He  found  the  state  of  his  pa- 
tient such  that  no  amount  of  wild  utterance  could  have 
surprised  him.  His  brain  was  burning  and  his  mind  all 
abroad  ;  he  tossed  from  side  to  side  and  talked  vehe- 
mently, but  even  to  Helen  unintelligibl}^ 

Mr.  Faber  had  not  attended  medical  classes  and 
walked  the  hospitals  without  undergoing  the  influences 
of  the  unbelief  prevailing  in  those  regions,  where,  on 
the  strength  of  a  little  knowledge  of  the  human  frame, 
cart-loads  of  puerile  ignorance  and  anile  vulgarity,  not 
to  mention  obscenity,  are  uttered  in  the  name  of  truth 
by  men  who  know  nothing  whatever  of  the  things  that 
belong  to  the  deeper  nature  believed  in  by  the  devout 
and  simple,  and  professed  also  by  many  who  are  per- 
haps yet  farther  from  a  knowledge  of  its  affairs  than 
those  who  thus  treat  them  with  contempt.  When, 
therefore,  he  came  to  practise  in  Glaston,  he  brought  his 


THE   SICK    CHAMBER.  185 

quota  of  yeast  into  the  old  bottle  of  that  ancient  and 
slumberous  town.  But  as  he  had  to  gain  for  himself  a 
practice,  he  was  prudent  enough  to  make  no  display  of 
the  cherished  emptiness  of  his  swept  and  garnished 
rooms.  I  do  not  mean  to  blame  him.  He  did  not  fancy 
himself  the  holder  of  any  Mephistophelean  commission 
for  the  general  annihilation  of  belief  like  George  Bas- 
combe,  only  one  from  nature's  bureau  of  ways  and 
means  for  the  cure  of  the  ailing  body — which  indeed,  to 
him,  comprised  all  there  was  of  humanity.  He  had  a 
cold,  hard,  business-like  manner,  v/hich,  however  ad- 
mirable on  some  grounds,  destroyed  any  hope  Helen 
had  cherished  of  finding  in  hirn  one  to  whom  she  might 
disclose  her  situation. 

He  proved  himself  both  wisis  and  skilful,  yet  it  was 
weeks  before  Leopold  began  to  mend.  By  the  time  the 
fever  left  him  he  was  in  such  a  prostrate  condition 
that  it  was  very  doubtful  whether  yet  he  could  live,  and 
Helen  had  had  to  draw  largely  even  upon  her  fine  stock 
of  health. 

Her  ministration  continued  most  exhausting.  Yet 
now  she  thought  of  her  life  as  she  had  never  thought  of 
it  before — namel}^  us  a  thing  of  worth.  It  had  grown 
precious  to  her  since  it  had  become  the  stay  of  Leo- 
pold's. Notwithstanding  the  terrible  state  of  suspense 
and  horror  in  which  she  now  lived,  seeming  to  herself 
at  times  an  actual  sharer  in  her  brother's  guilt,  she 
would  yet  occasionally  find  herself  exulting  in  the 
thought  of  being  the  guardian  angel  he  called  her. 
Now  that  by  his  bedside  hour  plodded  after  hour  in 


1 86  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

something  of  sameness  and  much  of  weariness,  she  yet 
looked  back  on  her  past  as  on  the  history  of  a  slug. 

During  all  the  time  she  scarcely  saw  her  cousin 
George,  and  indeed,  she  could  hardly  tell  why,  shrank 
from  him.  In 'the  cold,  bright,  shadowless,  north-windy 
day  of  his  presence  there  was  little  consolation  to  be 
gathered,  and  for  strength — to  face  him  made  afresh  de- 
mand upon  the  little  she  had.  Her  physical  being  had 
certainly  lost.  But  the  countenance  which,  after  a  long 
interval  of  absence,  the  curate  at  length  one  morning 
descried  in  the  midst  of  the  congregation,  had,  along 
with  its  pallor  and  look  of  hidden  and  suppressed  trou- 
ble, gathered  the  expres^sion  of  a  higher  order  of  exist- 
ence. Not  that  she  had  drawn  a  single  consoling 
draught  from  any  one  of  the  wells  of  religion,  or  now 
sought  the  church  for  the  sake  of  any  reminder  of 
something  found  precious  :  the  great  quiet  place  drew 
her  merely  with  the  offer  of  its  two  hours'  restful  still- 
ness. The  thing  which  had  elevated  her  was  simply  tho 
fact  that,  without  any  thought,  not  to  say  knowledge  of 
him,  she  had  yet  been  doing  the  will  of  the  Heart  of  the 
world.  True  she  had  been  but  following  her  instinct, 
and  ministering,  not  to  humanity  from  an  enlarged  af- 
fection, but  only  to  the  one  being  she  best  loved  in  all 
the  world — a  small  merit  surely  ! — yet  was  it  the  begin- 
ning of  the  way  of  God,  the  lovely  way,  and  therefore 
the  face  of  the  maiden  had  begun  to  shine  with  a  light 
which  no  splendor  of  physical  health,  no  consciousness 
of  beauty,  however  just,  could  have  kindled  there. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 


THE    CURATE  S   PROGRESS. 


HE  visits  of  Wingfold  to  the  little  people  at 
the  gate  not  only  became  frequent,  but  more 
and  more  interesting  to  him,  and  as  his  of- 
fice occasioned  few  demands  on  his  atten- 
tion, Polwarth  had  plenty  of  time  to  give  to  one  who 
sought  instruction  in  those  things  which  were  his  very 
passion.  He  had  never  yet  had  any  pupil  but  his 
niece,  and  to  find  another,  and  one  whose  soul  was  so 
eager  after  that  of  which  he  had  such  long-gathered 
store  to  dispense,  was  a  keen,  pure,  and  solemn  delight. 
It  was  that  for  which  he  had  so  often  prayed — an  outlet 
for  the  living  waters  of  his  spirit  into  dry  and  thirsty 
lands.  He  had  not  much  faculty  for  writing,  although 
now  and  then  he  would  relieve  his  heart  in  verse  ;  and 
if  he  had  a  somewhat  remarkable  gift  of  discourse,  to 
attempt  public  utterance  would  havv3  been  but  a  vain 
exposure  of  his  person  to  vulgar  mockery.  In  Wing- 
fold  he  had  found  a  man  docile  and  obedient,  both 
thirsting  after  and  recognizant  of  the  truth,  and  if  he 


l88  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

might  but  aid  him  in  unseahng  the  well  of  truth  in  his 
own  soul,  the  healing  waters  might  from  him  flow  far 
and  near.  Not  as  the  little  Zacchseus  who  pieced  his 
own  shortness  with  the  length  of  the  sycamore  tree,  so 
to  rise  above  his  taller  brethren  and  see  Jesus,  little 
Polwarth  would  lift  tall  Wingfold  on  his  shoulders,  first 
to  see,  and  then  cry  aloud  to  his  brethren  who  was  at 
band. 

For  two  or  three  Sundays  the  curate,  largely  assisted 
by  his  friend,  fed  his  flock  with  bis  gleanings  from 
other  men's  harvests,  and  already,  though  it  had  not 
yet  come  to  his  knowledge,  one  consequence  was  that 
complaints,  running  together,  made  a  pool  of  discon- 
tent, and  a  semi-public  meeting  had  been  held,  wherein 
was  discussed,  and  not  finally  negatived,  the  propriety 
of  communicating  with  the  rector  on  the  subject. 
Some,  however,  held  that,  as  the  incumbent  paid  so  little 
attention  to  his  flock,  it  would  be  better  to  appeal  to 
the  bishop,  and  acquaint  him  with  the  destitution  of 
that  portion  of  his  oversight.  But  things  presently 
took  a  new  turn,  at  first  surprising,  soon  alarming  to 
some,  and  at  length  to  not  a  few  appalling. 

Obedient  to  Polwarth's  instructions,  "Wingfold  had 
taken  to  his  New  Testament.  At  first,  as  he  read  and 
sought  to  understand,  ever  and  anon  some  small  diflii- 
culty,  notably,  foremost  of  all,  the  discrepancy  in  the 
genealogies — I  mention  it  merely  to  show  the  sort  of 
difficulty  I  mean — would  insect-like  shoot  out  of  the 
darkness  and  sting  him  in  the  face.  Some  of  these  he 
pursued,    encountered,    crushed — and    found    he    had 


THE   CURATE  S   PROGRESS. 


gained  next  to  nothing  by  the  victory  ;  and  Pohvarth 
soon  persuaded  him  to  let  such  alone  for  the  present, 
seeing  they  involved  nothing  concerning  the  man  at  a 
knowledge  of  whom  it  was  his  business  to  arrive.  But 
when  it  came  to  the  perplexity  caused  by  some  of  the 
sayings  of  Jesus  himself,  it  was  another  matter.  He 
must  understand  these,  he  thought,  or  fail  to  understand 
the  man.  Here  Polwarth  told  him  that,  if,  after  all,  he 
seemed  to  fail,  he  must  conclude  that  possibly  the 
meaning  of  the  words  was  beyond  him,  and  that  the 
understanding  of  them  depended  on  a  more  advanced 
knowledge  of  Jesus  himself ;  for,  while  words  reveal 
the  speaker,  they  must  yet  lie  in  the  light  of  some- 
thing already  known  of  the  speaker  to  be  themselves 
intelligible.  Between  the  mind  and  the  understanding 
of  certain  hard  utterances,  therefore,  there  must  of  ne- 
cessity lie  a  gradation  of  easier  steps.  And  here  Pol- 
warth was  tempted  to  give  him  a  far  more  impor- 
tant, because  more  immediately  practical  hint,  but  re- 
frained, from  the  dread  of  weakening  by  presentation, 
the  force  of  a  truth  which,  in  discovery,  would  have  its 
full  effect.  For  he  was  confident  that  the  curate,  in  the 
temper  which  was  now  his,  must  ere  long  come  imme- 
diately upon  the  truth  towards  which  he  was  tempted 
to  point  him. 

On  one  occasion  when  Wingfold  had  asked  him 
whether  he  saw  the  meaning  of  a  certain  saying  of  our 
Lord,  Polwarth  answered  thus  : 

"  I  think  I  do;  but  whether  I  could  at  present  make 
you  see  it  I  can  not  tell.     I  suspect  it  is  one  of  those 


I90  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

concerning  which  I  have  already  said  that  you  have  yet 
to  understand  Jesus  better  before  you  can  understand 
them.  Let  me,  just  to  make  the  nature  of  what  I  state 
clear  to  you,  ask  you  one  question  :  tell  me,  if  you  can, 
what,  primarily,  did  Jesus,  from  his  own  account  of 
himself,  come  into  the  world  to  do  ?" 

"  To  save  it,"  answered  Wingfold. 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,"  returned  Polwarth.  "  Mind, 
I  said  primarily.  You  will  yourself  come  to  the  same 
conclusion  by  and  by.  Either  our  Lord  was  a  phantom 
— a  heresy  of  potent  working  in  the  minds  of  many  who 
would  be  fierce  in  its  repudiation — or  he  was  a  very 
man,  uttering  the  heart  of  his  life  that  it  might  become 
the  life  of  his  brethren  ;  and  if  so,  an  honest  man  can 
never  ultimately  fail  of  getting  at  what  he  means.  I  have 
seen  him  described  somewhere  as  a  man  dominated  by 
the  passion  of  humanity — or  something  like  that.  The 
description  does  not,  to  my  mind,  even  shadow  the  truth. 
Another  passion,  if  such  I  may  dare  to  call  it,  was  the 
light  of  his  life,  dominating  even  that  which  would  yet 
have  been  enough  to  make  him  lay  down  his  life." 

Wingfold  went  away  pondering. 

Though  Polwarth  read  little  concerning  religion  ex- 
cept the  New  Testament,  he  could  yet  have  directed 
Wingfold  to  several  books  which  might  have  lent  him 
good  aid  in  his  quest  after  the  real  likeness  of  the  man 
he  sought  ;  but  he  greatly  desired  that  on  the  soul  of 
his  friend  the  dawn  should  break  over  the  mountains  of 
Judaea — the  first  light,  I  mean,  flow  from  the  words 
themselves  of  the  Son  of  Man.     Sometimes  he  grew  so 


THE   curate's    progress.  I9I 

excited  about  his  pupil  and  his  progress,  and  looked  so 
anxiously  for  the  news  of  light  in  his  darkness,  that  he 
could  not  rest  at  home,  but  would  be  out  all  day  in  the 
park — praying,  his  niece  believed,  for  the  young  parson. 
And  little  did  Wingfold  suspect  that,  now  and  again 
when  his  lamp  was  burning  far  into  the  night  because 
he  struggled  with  some  hard  saying,  the  little  man  was 
going  round  and  round  the  house  like  one  muttering 
charms,  only  they  were  prayers  for  his  friend.  Ill  satis- 
fied with  his  own  feeble  affection,  he  would  supplement 
it  with  its  origin,  would  lay  hold  upon  the  riches  of  the 
Godhead,  crying  for  his  friend  to  "  the  first  stock-father 
of  gentleness  ;" — folly  all,  and  fair  subject  of  laughter  to 
such  as  George  Bascombe,  if  there  be  no  God  ;  but  as 
Polwarth,  with  his  whole,  healthy,  holy  soul,  believed 
there  is  a  God,  it  was  for  him  but  simple  common-sense. 

Still  no  daybreak  ;  and  now  the  miracles  had  grown 
troublesome  !  Could  Mr.  Polwarth  honestly  say  that 
he  found  no  difficulty  in  believing  things  so  altogether 
out  of  the  common  order  of  events,  and  so  buried  in  the 
darkness  and  dust  of  antiquity  that  investigation  was 
impossible  ? 

Mr.  Polwarth  could  not  say  that  he  had  found  no 
such  difficulty. 

"  Then  why  should  the  weight  of  the  story,"  said 
Wingfold,  "  the  weight  of  its  proof,  I  mean,  to  minds 
like  ours,  coming  so  long  after,  and  by  their  education 
incapacitated  for  believing  in  such  things,  in  a  time 
when  the  law  of  every  thing  is  searched  into — " 


192  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  And  as  yet  very  likely  as  far  from  understood  as 
ever,"  interposed  but  not  interrupted  Polwarth. 

"  — why  should  the  weight  of  its  proof,  I  ask,  be  laid 
upon  such  improbable  things  as  miracles?  That  they 
are  necessarily  improbable,  I  presume  you  will  admit." 

"  Having  premised  that  I  believed  every  one  record 
ed,"  said  Polwarth,  "  I  heartily  admit  their  improbabili- 
ty. But  the  weight  of  proof  is  not,  and  never  was,  laid 
upon  them.  Our  Lord  did  not  make  much  of  them,  and 
did  them  far  more  for  the  individual  concerned  than  for 
the  sake  of  the  beholders.  I  will  not,  however,  talk  to 
you  about  them  now.  I  will  merely  say  that  it  is  not 
through  the  miracles  you  will  find  the  Lord,  though, 
having  found  him,  you  will  find  him  there  also.  The 
question  for  you  is  not.  Are  the  miracles  true  ?  but,  Was 
Jesus  true.^  Again  I  say,  you  must  find  him — the  man 
himself.  When  you  have  found  him,  I  may  perhaps  re- 
tort upon  you  the  question,  '  Can  you  believe  such  im- 
probable things  as  the  miracles,  Mr.  Wingfold  ?'  " 

The  little  man  showed  pretty  plainly  by  the  set  of  his 
lips  that  he  meant  to  say  no  more,  and  again  Wingfold 
had,  with  considerable  dissatisfaction  and  no  answer,  to 
go  back  to  his  New  Testament, 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE    CURATE    MAKES    A    DISCOVERY. 

T  length,  one  day,  as  he  was  working  with  a 
harmony,  comparing  certain  passages  be- 
tween themselves,  and  as  variedly  given  in 
the  gospels,  he  fell  into  a  half-thinking,  half- 
dreaming  mood,  in  which  his  eyes,  for  some  time  uncon- 
sciously, rested  on  the  verse, '  Ye  will  not  come  unto  me 
that  ye  might  have  life.'  It  mingled  itself  with  his 
brooding,  and  by  and  by,  though  yet  he  was  brooding 
rather  than  meditating,  the  form  of  Jesus  had  gathered, 
in  the  stillness  of  his  mental  quiescence,  so  much  of  re- 
ality that  at  length  he  found  himself  thinking  of  him  as 
of  a  true-hearted  man,  mightily  in  earnest  to  help  his 
fellows,  who  could  not  get  them  to  mind  what  he  told 
them. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  curate  to  himself,  "  if  Ihad  but  seen 
him,  would  not  I  have  minded  him  !  would  not  I  have 
haunted  his  steps,  with  question  upon  question,  until  I 
got  at  the  truth  I" 

Again  the  more    definite   thought    vanished    in   the 


194  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

seething  chaos  of  reverie,  which  dured  unbroken  for 
a  time,  until  again  suddenly  rose  from  memory  to  con- 
sciousness and  attention  the  words,  "  Why  call  ye  me, 
Lord,  Lord,  and  do  not  the  things  which  I  say  ?" 

"  Good  God  !"  he  exclaimed,  "  here  am  I  bothering 
over  words,  and  questioning  about  this  and  that,  as  if 
1  were  testing  his  fitness  for  a  post  I  had  to  offer  him, 
and  he  all  the  time  claiming  my  obedience  !  I  can  not 
even,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  at  least,  tell  one  thing 
he  wants  me  to  do  ;  and  as  to  doing  any  thing  because 
he  told  me — not  once  did  I  ever  !  But  then  how  am  I 
to  obey  him  until  I  am  sure  of  his  right  to  command  ?  I 
just  want  to  know  whether  I  am  to  call  him  Lord  or 
not.  No,  that  won't  do  either,  for  he  says.  Why  even 
of  yourselves  judge  ye  not  what  is  right  ?  And  do  I  not 
know — have  I  ever  even  doubted  that  what  he  said  we 
ought  to  do,  was  the  right  thing  to  do  ?  Yet  here  have 
I,  all  these  years,  been  calling  myself  a  Christian,  min- 
istering, forsooth,  in  the  temple  of  Christ,  as  if  he  were 
a  heathen  divinity,  who  cared  for  songs  and  prayers 
and  sacrifices,  and  can  not  honestly  say  I  ever  once  in 
my  life  did  a  thing  because  he  said  so,  although  the  re- 
cord is  full  of  his  earnest,  even  pleading  words  !  I  have 
not  been  an  honest  man,  and  how  should  a  dishonest 
man  be  a  judge  over  that  man  who  said  he  was  the 
Christ  of  God  ?  Would  it  be  any  wonder  if  the  things 
he  uttered  should  be  too  high  and  noble  to  be  by  such 
a  man  recognized  as  truth  ?" 

With  this,  yet  another  saying  dawned  upon  him :  // 


THE  CURATE   MAKES  A    DISCOVERY.  I95 

any  man  will  do  his  will,  he  shall  know  of  the  doctrine, 
whether  it  be  of  God,  or  whether  I  speak  of  myself." 

He  went  into  his  closet  and  shut  to  the  door;  came 
out  again,  and  went  straight  to  visit  a  certain  grievous 
old  woman. 

The  next  open  result  was,  that,  on  the  following  Sun- 
day, a  man  went  up  into  the  pulpit  who,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  believed  he  had  something  to  say  to  his 
fellow-sinners.  It  was  not  now  the  sacred  spoil  of  the 
best  of  gleaning  or  catering  that  he  bore  thither  with 
him,  but  the  message  given  him  by  a  light  in  his  own 
inward  parts,  discovering  therein  the  darkness  and  the 
wrong. 

He  opened  no  sermon  case,  nor  read  words  from  any 
book,  save,  with  trembling  voice,  these  : 

"  Why  call  ye  me.  Lord,  Lord,  and  do  not  the  things 
which  Isayf" 

I  pause  for  a  moment  in  my  narrative  to  request  the 
sympathy  of  such  readers  as  may  be  capable  of  affording 
it,  for  a  man  whose  honesty  makes  him  appear  egotis- 
tic. When  a  man,  finding  himself  in  a  false  position,  is 
yet  anxious  to  do  the  duties  of  that  position  until  such 
time  as,  if  he  should  not  in  the  mean  time  have  verified 
it  and  become  able  to  fill  it  with  honesty,  he  may  hon- 
orably leave  it,  I  think  he  may  well  be  pardoned  if,  of 
inward  necessity,  he  should  refer  to  himself  in  a  place 
where  such  reference  may  be  either  the  greatest  impie- 
ty or  the  outcome  of  the  truest  devotion.  In  him  it 
was  neither :  it  was  honesty — and  absorption  in  the 
startled  gaze  of  a  love  that  believed  it  had  caught  a 


19^  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

glimmer  of  the  passing  garment  of  the  Truth.  Thus 
strengthened — might  I  not  say  inspired  ?  for  what  is  the 
love  of  truth  and  the  joy  therein,  if  not  a  breathing  into 
the  soul  of  the  breath  of  life  from  the  God  of  truth  ? — 
he  looked  round  upon  his  congregation  as  he  had  never 
dared  until  now ;  saw  face  after  face,  and  knew  it ;  saw 
among  the  rest  that  of  Helen  Lingard,  so  sadly  yet  not 
pitifully  altered,  with  a  doubt  if  it  could  be  she  ;  trem- 
bled a  little  with  a  new  excitement,  which  one  less  mod- 
est or  less  wise  might  have  taken — how  foolishly  ! — in- 
stead of  the  truth  perceived,  for  the  inspiration  of  the 
spirit ;  and,  sternly  suppressing  the  emotion,  said, 

"  My  hearers,  I  come  before  you  this  morning  to  utter 
the  first  word  of  truth  it  has  ever  been  given  to  me  to 
utter." 

His  hearers  stared  both  mentally  and  corporeally. 

"  Is  he  going  to  deny  the  Bible  ?"  said  some.  "  It  will 
be  the  last,"  said  others,  "  if  the  rector  hear  in  time  how 
you  have  been  disgracing  yourself  and  profaning  his 
pulpit." 

"  And,"  the  curate  went  on,  "  it  would  be  as  a  fire  in 
my  bones  did  I  attempt  to  keep  it  back. 

"  In  my  room,  three  days  ago,  I  was  reading  the 
strange  story  of  the  man  who  appeared  in  Palestine  say- 
ing that  he  was  the  Son  of  God,  and  came  upon  those 
words  of  his  which  I  have  now  read  in  your  hearing. 
At  their  sound  the  accuser.  Conscience,  awoke  in  my 
bosom,  and  asked,  '  Doest  thou  the  things  he  saith  to 
thee  ?'  And  I  thought  with  myself,  '  Have  I  this  day 
done  any  thing  he  says  to  me  ?    When  did  I  do  any  thing 


THE   CURATE   MAKES    A    DISCOVERY.  197 

I  had  heard  of  him  ?  Did  I  ever  ' — to  this  it  came  at 
last — '  Did  I  ever,  in  all  my  life,  do  one  thing  because  he 
said  to  me,  Do  this  f  And  the  answer  was  No,  7iever. 
Yet  there  I  was,  not  only  calling  myself  a  Christian,  but 
on  the  strength  of  my  Christianity,  it  was  to  be  pre- 
sumed, living  among  you,  and  received  by  you,  as 
your  helper  on  the  way  to  the  heavenly  kingdom — a 
living  falsehood,  walking  and  talking  among  you  !" 

"What  a  wretch!"  said  one  man  to  himself,  who 
made  a  large  part  of  his  living  by  the  sale  of  under-gar- 
ments  whose  every  stitch  was  an  untacking  of  the  body 
from  the  soul  of  a  seamstress.  "  Bah  I"  said  some. 
"  A  hypocrite,  by  his  own  confession  !"  said  others. 
"  Exceedingly  improper  !"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn.  "  Un- 
heard-of and  most  unclerical  behavior  !  And  actually 
to  confess  such  paganism  !"  For  Helen,  she  waked  up 
a  little,  began  to  listen,  and  wondered  what  he  had 
been  saying  tiiat  a  wind  seemed  to  have  blown  rustling 
among  the  heads  of  the  congregation. 

"  Having  made  this  confession,"  Wingfold  proceeded, 
"  you  will  understand  that  whatever  I  now  say,  I  say  to 
and  of  myself  as  much  as  to  and  of  any  other  to  whom  it 
may  apply." 

He  then  proceeded  to  show  that  faith  and  obedience 
are  one  and  the  same  spirit,  passing,  as  it  were,  from 
room  to  room  in  the  same  heart :  what  in  the  heart  we 
call  faith,  in  the  will  we  call  obedience.  He  showed 
that  the  Lord  refused  absolutely  the  faith  that  found  its 
vent  at  the  lips  in  the  worshipping  words,  and  not  at  the 
limbs   in   obedient   action — which    some    present   pro- 


198  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

nounced  bad  theology,  while  others  said  to  themselves 
surely  that  at  least  was  common  sense.  For  Helen, 
what  she  heard  might  be  interesting  to  clergymen,  or 
people  like  her  aunt  who  had  to  do  with  such  matters, 
but  to  her  it  was  less  than  nothing  and  vanity,  whose 
brother  lay  at  home  "  sick  in  heart  and  sick  in  head." 

But  hard  thoughts  of  him  could  not  stay  the  fountain 
of  Wingfold's  utterance,  which  filled  as  it  flowed.  Ea- 
ger after  a  right  presentation  of  what  truth  he  saw,  he 
dwelt  on  the  mockery  it  would  be  of  any  man  to  call 
him  the  wisest,  the  best,  the  kindest,  yea,  and  the  dear- 
est of  men,  yet  never  heed  either  the  smallest  request 
or  the  most  urgent  entreaty  he  made. 

"A  Socinian  !"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn. 

'•  There's  stuff  in  the  fellow  !"  said  the  rector's 
churchwarden,  who  had  been  brought  up  a  Wesleyan. 

"  He'd  make  a  fellow  fancy  he  did  believe  all  his 
grandmother  told  him  !  "  thought  Bascombe. 

As  he  went  on,  the  awakened  curate  grew  almost  elo- 
quent. His  face  shone  with  earnestness.  Even  Helen 
found  her  gaze  fixed  upon  him,  though  she  had  not  a 
notion  what  he  was  talking  about.  He  closed  at  length 
with  these  words  : 

"After  the  confession  I  have  now  made  to  you,  a  con- 
fession which  I  have  also  entreated  every  one  of  you  to 
whom  it  belongs,  to  make  to  himself  and  his  God,  it 
follows  that  I  dare  not  call  myself  a  Christian.  How 
should  such  a  one  as  I  know  any  thing  about  that 
which,  if  it  be  true  at  all,  is  the  loftiest,  the  one  all-ab- 
sorbing truth  in  the  universe  ?     How  should  such  a  fel- 


THE  CURATE   MAKES   A   DISCOVERY.  I99 

low  as  I  " — he  went  on,  growing  scornful  at  himself  in 
the  presence  of  the  truth — "  judge  of  its  sacred  probabi- 
lities ?  or,  having  led  such  a  life  of  simony,  be  heard 
when  he  declares  that  such  a  pretended  message  from 
God  to  men  seems  too  good  to  be  true  ?  The  things 
therein  contained  1  declared  good,  yet  went  not  and  did 
them.  Therefore  am  I  altogether  out  of  court,  and 
must  not  be  heard  in  the  matter. 

"  No,  my  hearers,  I  call  not  myself  a  Christian,  but  I 
call  every  one  here  who  obeys  the  word  of  Jesus,  who 
restrains  anger,  who  declines  judgment,  who  practises 
generosity,  who  loves  his  enemies,  who  prays  for  his 
slanderers,  to  witness  my  vow,  that  I  too  will  hence- 
forth try  to  obey  him,  in  the  hope  that  he  whom  he 
called  God  and  his  Father  will  reveal  to  me  him  whom 
you  call  your  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  that  into  my  darkness 
I  may  receive  the  light  of  the  world  !" 

"  A  professed  infidel !"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn.  "  A  cle- 
ver one  too  !  That  was  a  fine  trap  he  laid  for  us  to 
prove  us  all  atheists  as  well  as  himself  !  As  if  any  mere 
mortal  could  obey  the  instructions  of  the  Saviour  !  He 
was  divine  ;  we  are  but  human." 

She  might  have  added,  "  And  but  poor  creatures  as 
such,"  but  did  not  go  so  far,  believing  herself  more  than 
an  average  specimen. 

But  there  was  one  shining  face  which,  like  a  rising 
sun  of  love  and  light  and  truth,  "pillowed  his  chin," 
not  "on  an  orient  wave,"  but  on  the  book-board  of  a 
free  seat.  The  eyes  of  it  were  full  of  tears,  and  the 
heart  behind  it  was  giving  that  God  and  Father  thanks, 


200  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

for  this  was  more,  far  more  than  he  had  even  hoped  for 
save  in  the  indefinite  future.  The  light  was  no  longer 
present  as  warmth  or  vivification  alone,  but  had  be- 
gun to  shine  as  light  in  the  heart  of  his  friend,  to  whom 
now,  praised  be  God!  the  way  lay  open  into  all  truth. 
And  when  the  words  came,  in  a  voice  that  once  more 
trembled  with  emotion,  "  Now  to  God  the  Father,"  he 
bent  down  his  face,  and  the  poor,  stunted,  distorted 
frame  and  great  gray  head  were  grievously  shaken  with 
the  sobs  of  a  mighty  gladness.  Truth  in  the  inward  parts 
looked  out  upon  him  from  the  face  of  one  who  stood 
before  the  people  their  self-denied  teacher !  How 
would  they  receive  it  ?  It  mattered  not.  Those  whom 
the  Father  had  drawn  would  hear. 

Polwarth  neither  sought  the  curate  in  the  vestry, 
waited  for  him  at  the  church-door,  nor  followed  him  to 
his  lodging.  He  was  not  of  those  who  compliment  a 
man  on  his  fine  sermon.  How  grandly  careless  are 
some  men  of  the  risk  of  ruin  their  praises  are  to  their 
friends  !  "  Let  God  praise  him  !"  said  Polwarth  ;  "  I 
will  only  dare  to  love  him."  He  would  not  toy  with  his 
friend's  waking  Psyche. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 


HOPES. 


T  was  the  first  Sunday  Helen  had  gone  to 
church  since  her  brother  came  to  her. 
On  the  previous  Sunday  he  had  passed  some 
crisis  and  begun  to  hnprove,  and  by  the 
end  of  the  week  was  so  quiet  that,  longing  for  a  change 
of  atmosphere,  and  believing  he  might  be  left  with  the 
housekeeper,  she  had  gone  to  church.  On  her  return 
she  heard  he  was  no  worse,  although  he  had  "  been  a 
frettin'  after  her."  She  hurried  to  him  as  if  he  had  been 
her  baby. 

"  What  do  you  go  to  church  for  ?"  he  asked,  half- 
petulantly,  like  a  spoilt  child,  with  languid  eyes  whence 
the  hard  fire  had  vanished.     "  What's  the  use  of  it  ?" 
He  looked  at  her,  waiting  for  an  answer. 
"Not  much,"   replied  Helen.    "I  like  the  quiet  and 
the  music,  that's  all." 

He  seemed  disappointed,  and  lay  still  for  a  few  mo- 
ments. 
•'  In  old  times,"  he  said  at  last,  "  the  churches  used  to 


202  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

be  a  refuge  :  I  suppose  that  is  why  one  can't  help  feel- 
ing as  if  some  safety  were  to  be  got  from  them  yet. — 
Was  your  cousin  George  there  this  morning  }" 

"  Yes,  he  went  with  us,"  answered  Helen. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him.  I  want  somebody  to  talk 
to." 

Helen  was  silent.  She  was  more  occupied,  however, 
in  answering  to  herself  the  question  why  she  shrunk  so 
decidedly  from  bringing  Bascombe  into  the  sick-room 
than  in  thinking  what  she  should  say  to  Leopold.  The 
truth  was  the  truth,  and  why  should  she  object  to  Leo- 
pold's knowing,  or  at  least  being  told  as  well  as  herself, 
that  he  need  fear  no  punishment  in  the  next  world, 
whatever  he  might  have  to  encounter  in  this  ;  that  there 
was  no  frightful  God  who  hated  wrong-doing  to  be  ter- 
rified at ;  that  even  the  badness  of  own  action  need  not 
distress  him,  for  he  and  it  would  pass  away  as  the  blood 
he  had  shed  had  already  vanished  from  the  earth  7 
Ought  it  not  to  encourage  the  poor  fellow  ?  But  to 
what?  To  live  on  and  endure  his  misery,  or  to  put  an 
end  to  it  and  himself  at  once  ?  Or  perhaps  to  plunge 
into  vice  that  he  might  escape  the  consciousness  of 
guilt  and  the  dread  of  the  law  ? 

I  will  not  say  that  exactly  such  a  train  of  thought  as 
this  passed  through  her  mind,  but  of  whatever  sort  it 
was,  it  brought  her  no  nearer  to  a  desire  for  the  light  of 
Geoige  Bascombe's  presence  by  the  bedside  of  her  guil- 
ty brother.  At  the  same  time  her  partiality  for  her 
cousin  made  her  justify  his  exclusion  thus  :  "  George  is 
so  good  himsejf,  he  is  only  fit  for  the  company  of  good 


HOPES.  203 


people.  He  would  not  in  the  least  understand  my  poor 
Poldie,  and  would  be  too  hard  upon  him." 

Since  her  brother's  appearance,  in  fact,  she  had  seen 
very  little  of  her  cousin,  and  this  not  merely  because 
her  presence  was  so  much  required  in  the  sick-chamber, 
but  because  she  was  herself  unwilling  to  meet  him.  She 
had  felt,  almost  without  knowing  it,  that  his  character 
was  unsympathetic,  and  that  his  loud,  cold  good-nature 
could  never  recognize  or  justify  such  love  as  she  bore 
to  her  brother.  Nor  was  this  all ;  for,  remembering 
how  he  had  upon  one  occasion  expressed  himself  with 
regard  to  criminals,  she  feared  even  to  look  in  his 
face,  lest  his  keen,  questioning,  unsparing  eye  should 
read  in  her  soul  that  she  was  the  sister  of  a  murderer. 

Before  this  time,  however,  a  hint  of  light  had  appeared 
in  the  clouds  that  enwrapped  her  and  Leopold  ;  she 
had  begun  to  doubt  whether  he  had  really  committed 
the  crime  of  which  he  accused  himself.  There  had 
been  no  inquiry  after  him,  except  from  his  uncle,  con- 
cerning his  absence  from  Cambridge,  for  which  his  sud- 
den attack  of  brain-fever  served  as  more  than  sufficient 
excuse.  That  there  had  been  such  a  murder  the  news- 
papers left  her  no  room  to  question  ;  but  might  not  the 
relation  in  which  he  stood  to  the  victim,  the  horror  of 
her  death,  the  insidious  approaches  of  the  fever,  and 
the  influences  of  that  hateful  drug,  have  combined  to 
call  up  an  hallucination  of  blood-guiltiness  ?  And  what 
at  length  all  but  satisfied  her  of  the  truth  of  her  con- 
jecture was  that  when  he  began  to  recover,  Leopold 
seemed  himself  in  doubt  at  times  whether  his  sense  of 


204  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

guilt  had  not  its  origin  in  some  one  or  other  of  the 
many  dreams  which  had  haunted  him  throughout  his 
illness,  knowing  only  too  well  that  it  was  long  since 
dreams  had  become  to  him  more  real  than  the  greater 
part  of  what  was  going  on  around  him.  To  this  blur- 
ring and  confusing  of  consciousness  it  probably  contri- 
buted, that  in  the  first  stages  of  the  fever  he  was  under 
the  influence  of  the  same  drug  which  had  been  working 
upon  his  brain  up  to  the  very  moment  when  he  commit- 
ted the  crime. 

During  the  week  the  hope  had  almost  settled  into 
conviction  ;  and  one  consequence  was  that,  although 
she  was  not  a  whit  more  inclined  to  introduce  George 
Bascombe  into  the  sick-chamber,  she  found  herself  not 
only  equal  but  no  longer  averse  to  meeting  him  ;  and  on 
the  following  Saturday,  when  he  presented  himself  as 
usual,  come  to  spend  the  Sunday,  she  listened  to  her 
aunt,  and  consented  to  go  out  with  him  for  a  ride — in  t  he 
evening,  however,  when  Mrs.  Ramshorn  herself,  who 
had  shown  Leopold  great  and  genuine  kindness,  would 
be  able  to  sit  with  him.  They  therefore  had  dinner  early, 
and  Helen  went  again  to  her  brother's  room,  unwil- 
ling to  leave  him  a  moment  until  she  gave  up  her  charge 
to  her  aunt. 

They  had  tea  together,  and  Leopold  was  very  quiet. 
It  is  wonderful  with  what  success  the  mind  will  accom- 
modate itself,  in  its  effort  after  peace,  to  the  presence  of 
the  most  torturing  thought.  But  Helen  took  this  qui- 
etness for  a  sign  of  innocence,  not  knowing  that  the 
state  of  the  feelings  is  neither  test  nor  gauge  of  guilt. 


HOPES.  205 


The  nearer  perfection  a  character  is,  the  louder  is  the 
cry  of  conscience  at  the  appearance  of  fault ;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  worst  criminals  have  had  the  easiest 
minds. 

Helen  also  was  quiet,  and  fell  into  a  dreamy  mood, 
watching  her  brother,  who  every  now  and  then  turned 
on  her  a  look  of  love  and  gratitude  which  moved  her 
heart  to  its  very  depths.  Not  until  she  heard  the  horses 
coming  round  from  the  stable  did  she  rise  to  go  and 
change  her  dress. 

"  I  shall  not  be  long  away  from  you,  Poldie,"  she 
said. 

"  Do  not  forget  me,  Helen,"  he  returned.  "  If  you  for- 
get uie,  an  enemy  will  think  of  me." 

His  love  comforted  her,  and  yet  further  strengthened 
her  faith  in  his  innocence  ;  and  it  was  with  a  kind  of 
half-repose,  timid,  wavering,  and  glad,  upon  her  coun- 
tenance— how  different  from  the  old,  dull,  wooden 
quiescence  ! — that  she  joined  her  cousin  in  the  hall.  A 
moment,  and  he  had  lifted  her  to  the  saddle,  and  was 
mounted  by  her  side. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    RIDE. 

SOFT  west  wind,  issuing  as  from  the  heart 
of  a  golden  vase  filled  with  roses,  met  them 
the  instant  they  turned  out  of  the  street, 
walking  their  horses  towards  the  park-gate. 
Something — was  it  in  the  evening,  or  was  it  in  his  own 
soul  ? — had  prevailed  to  the  momentary  silencing  of 
George  Bascombe  :  it  may  have  been  but  the  influence 
of  the  cigar  which  Helen  had  begged  him  to  finish. 
Helen,  too,  was  silent :  she  felt  as  if  the  low  red  sun, 
straight  into  which  they  seemed  to  be  riding,  blotted  out 
her  being  in  the  level  torrent  of  his  usurping  radiance. 
Neither  of  them  spoke  a  word  until  they  had  passed 
through  the  gate  into  the  park. 

It  was  a  perfect  English  summer  evening — warm,  but 
not  sultry.  As  they  walked  their  horses  up  the  car- 
riage-way the  sun  went  down,  and,  as  if  he  had  fallen 
like  a  live  coal  into  some  celestial  magazine  of  color  and 
glow,  straightway  blazed  up  a  slow  explosion  of  crimson 
and  green  in  a  golden  triumph — pure  fire,  the  smoke 
and  fuel  gone,  and  the  radiance  alone  left.    And  now 


THE  RIDE.  207 


Helen  received  the  second  lesson  of  her  initiation  into 
the  life  of  nature :  she  became  aware  that  the  whole 
evening  was  thinking  around  her,  and  as  the  dusk  grew 
deeper  and  the  night  drew  closer,  the  world  seemed  to 
^  have  grown  dark  with  its  thinking.  Of  late  Helen  had 
been  driven  herself  to  think — if  not  deeply,  yet  intense- 
ly—and so  knew  what  it  was  like,  and  felt  at  home  with 
the  twilight. 

They  turned  from  the  drive  on  to  the  turf.  Their 
horses  tossed  up  their  heads,  and  set  off,  unchecked,  at 
a  good  pelting  gallop  across  the  open  park.  On  Hel- 
en's cheek  the  wind  blew  cooling,  strong,  and  kind.  As 
if  flowing  from  some  fountain  above,  in  an  unseen  un- 
banked  river,  down  through  the  stiller  ocean  of  the  air, 
it  seemed  to  bring  to  her  a  vague  promise,  almost  a  pre- 
cognition, of  peace — which,  however,  only  set  her  long- 
ing after  something — she  knew  not  what — something  of 
which  she  only  knew  that  it  would  fill  the  longing  the 
wind  had  brought  her.  The  longing  grew  and  extended 
— went  stretching  on  and  on  into  an  infinite  of  rest. 
And  as  they  still  galloped,  and  the  light-maddened  co- 
lors sank  into  smoky-peach  and  yellow-green  and  blue- 
gray,  the  something  swelled  and  swelled  in  her  soul,  and 
pulled  and  pulled  at  her  heart,  until  the  tears  were  run- 
ning down  her  face.  For  fear  Bascombe  should  see 
them,  she  gave  her  horse  the  rein,  and  fled  from  him 
into  the  friendly  dusk  that  seemed  to  grade  time  into 
eternity. 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  close  to  a  clump  of  trees, 
which  overhung  the  deserted  house.     She  had  made  a 


2o8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

great  circuit  without  knowing  it.  A  pang  shot  to  her 
heart,  and  her  tears  ceased  to  flow.  The  night,  silent 
with  thought,  held  that  also  in  its  bosom  !  She  drew 
rein,  turned,  and  waited  for  Bascombe. 

"  What  a  chase  you've  given  me,  Helen  !"  he  cried, 
while  yet  pounding  away  some  score  of  yards  off. 

"  A  wild-goose  one  you  mean,  cousin  ?" 

"It  would  have  been  if  I  had  thought  to  catch  you  on 
this  ancient  cocktail." 

"Don't  abuse  the  old  horse,  George:  he  has  seen 
better  days.  I  would  gladly  have  mounted  you  more  to 
your  mind,  but  you  know  I  could  not — except,  indeed,  I 
had  given  you  my  Fanny,  and  taken  the  old  horse  my- 
self.    I  have  ridden  him." 

"The  lady  ought  always  to  be  the  better  mounted," 
returned  George  coolly.  "  For  my  part,  I  much  prefer 
it,  because  then  I  need  not  be  anxious  about  whether  I 
am  boring  her  or  not :  if  I  am,  she  can  run  away." 

"  You  can  not  suppose  I  thought  you  a  bore  to-night. 
A  more  sweetly  silent  gentleman  none  could  wish  for 
squire." 

•'  Then  it  was  my  silence  bored  you.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  was  thinking  about  ?" 

"  If  you  like.  I  was  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would 
be  to  ride  on  and  on  and  on  into  eternity,"  said  Helen. 

"That  feeling  of  continuity,"  returned  George,  "is  a 
proof  of  the  painlessness  of  departure.  No  one  can 
ever  know  when  he  ceases  to  be,  because  then  he  is  not ; 
and  that  is  how  some  men  come  to  fancy  they  feel  as  if 
they  were  going  to  live  forever.     But  the  worst  of  it  is 


THE  RIDE.  209 


that  they  no  sooner  fancy  it  than  it  seems  to  them  a  pro- 
bable as  well  as  a  delightful  thing  to  go  on  and  on  and 
never  cease.  This  comes  of  the  man's  having  no  con- 
sciousness of  ceasing,  and  when  one  is  comfortable  it 
always  seems  good  to  go  on.  A  child  is  never  willing 
to  turn  from  the  dish  of  which  he  is  eating  to  another. 
It  is  more  he  wants,  not  another." 

"  That  is  if  he  likes  it,"  said  Helen. 

'•  Every  body  likes  it,"  said  George,  " — more  or  less." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  every  body,"  replied  Helen.  "  Do 
you  imagine  that  twisted  little  dwarf-woman  that  opened 
the  gate  for  us  is  content  with  her  lot  Y' 

"  No,  that  is  impossible — while  she  sees  and  remains 
what  she  is.  But  I  said  nothing  of  contentment.  I  was 
but  thinking  of  the  fools  who,  whether  content  or  not, 
yet  want  to  live  forever,  and  so,  very  conveniently,  take 
their  longing  for  immortality,  which  they  call  an  idea 
innate  in  the  human  heart,  for  a  proof  that  immortality 
is  their  rightful  inheritance." 

"  How  then  do  you  account  for  the  existence  and 
universality  of  the  idea?  "  asked  Helen,  who  had  hap- 
pened lately  to  come  upon  some  arguments  on  the  other 
side. 

But  while  she  spoke  thus  indifferently  she  felt  in  Ker 
heart  like  one  who  wakes  from  a  delicious  swim  in  the 
fairest  of  rivers,  to  find  that  the  clothes  have  slipped 
from  the  bed  to  the  floor :  that  was  all  his  river  and  all 
his  swim  ! 

"  I  account  for  its  existence  as  I  have  just  said  ;  and 


2IO  THOMAS   WING  FOLD,    CURATE. 

for  its  universality  by  denying  it.  It  is  tiot  universal, 
for /haven't  it." 

"At  least  you  will  not  deny  that  men,  even  when 
miserable,  shrink  from  dying  ?" 

"  Any  thing,  every  thing  is  unpleasant  out  of  its  due 
time.  I  will  allow,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  the 
thought  of  dying  is  always  unpleasant.  But  wherefore 
so  ?  Because,  in  the  very  act  of  thinking  it,  the  idea 
must  always  be  taken  from  the  time  that  suits  with  it — 
namely,  its  own  time,  when  it  will  at  length,  and  ought 
at  length,  to  come — and  placed  in  the  midst  of  the  lively 
present,  with  which  assuredly  it  does  not  suit.  To  life, 
death  must  be  always  hateful.  In  the  rush  and  turmoil 
of  effort,  how  distasteful  even  the  cave  of  the  hermit, 
let  ever  such  a  splendid  view  spread  abroad  before  its 
mouth  !  But  when  it  coines  it  will  be  pleasant  enough, 
for  then  its  time  will  have  come  also — the  man  will  be 
prepared  for  it  by  decay  and  cessation.  If  one  were  to 
tell  me  that  he  had  that  endless  longing  for  immortality, 
of  which  hitherto  I  have  only  heard  at  second  hand,  I 
would  explain  it  to  him  thus:  Your  life,  I  would  say, 
not  being  yet  complete,  still  growing,  feels  in  itself  the 
onward  impulse  of  growth,  and,  unable  to  think  of  itself 
as  other  than  complete,  interprets  that  onward  impulse 
as  belonging  to  the  time  around  it  instead  of  the  nature 
within  it.  Or  rather  let  me  say,  the  man  feels  in  him- 
self the  elements  of  more,  and  not  being  able  to  grasp 
the  notion  of  his  own  completeness,  which  is  so  far  from 
him,  transposes  the  feeling  of  growth  and  sets  it  beyond 
himself,  translating  it  at  the  same  time  into  an  instinct 


THE    RIDE. 


of  duration,  a  longing  after  what  he  calls  eternal  life. 
But  when  the  man  is  complete,  then  comes  decay  and 
brings  its  own  contentment  with  it — as  will  also  death, 
when  it  arrives  in  its  own  proper  season  of  fulness  and 
ripeness." 

Helen  said  nothing  in  reply.  She  thought  her  cousin 
very  clever,  but  could  not  enjoy  what  he  said — not  in 
the  face  of  that  sky  and  in  the  yet  lingering  reflec- 
tion of  the  feeings  it  had  waked  in  her.  He  might 
be  right,  but  now,  at  least,  she  wanted  no  more  of  it. 
She  even  felt  as  if  she  would  rather  cherish  a  sweet  de- 
ception for  the  comfort  of  the  moment  in  which  the 
weaver's  shuttle  flew,  than  take  to  her  bosom  a  cold, 
killing  fact. 

Such  were  indeed  an  unworthy  feeling  to  follow  !  Of 
all  things  let  us  have  the  truth — even  of  fact !  But  to 
deny  what  we  can  not  prove,  not  even  casts  into  our  ice- 
house a  spadeful  of  snow.  What  if  the  warm  hope  de- 
nied should  be  the  truth  after  all  .'*  What  if  it  was  the 
truth  in  it  that  drew  the  soul  towards  it  by  its  indwell- 
ing reality,  and  its  relations  with  her  being,  even  while 
she  took  blame  for  suffering  herself  to  be  enticed  by  a 
sweet  deception  ?  Alas  indeed  for  men  if  the  life  and  the 
truth  are  not  one,  but  fight  against  each  other  I  Surely 
it  says  something  for  the  divine  nature  of  him  that  de- 
nies the  divine,  when  he  yet  cleaves  to  what  he  thinks 
the  truth,  although  it  denies  the  life,  and  blots  the  way 
to  the  better  from  every  chart ! 

"  And  what  were  you  thinking  of,  George  ?"  said 
Helen,  willing  to  change  the  subject. 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


"  I  was  thinking,"  he  answered,  " — let  me  see  ! — oh  ! 
yes.  I  was  thinking  of  that  very  singular  case  of  mur- 
der. You  must  have  seen  it  in  the  newspapers.  I  have 
long  had  a  doubt  whether  I  were  better  fitted  for  a  bar- 
rister or  a  detective.  I  can't  keep  my  mind  off  a  puzzling 
case.  You  must  have  heard  of  this  one — the  girl  they 
found  lying  in  her  ball-dress  in  the  middle  of  a  wood, 
stabbed  to  the  heart  ?" 

"  I  do  remember  something  of  it,"  answered  Helen, 
gathering  a  little  courage  to  put  into  her  voice  from  the 
fact  that  her  cousin  could  hardly  see  her  face.  "Then 
the  murderer  has  not  been  discovered  ?" 

"  That  is  the  point  of  interest.  Not  a  trace  of  him  ! 
Not  a  soul  suspected,  even  !" 

Helen  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  Had  it  been  in  Rome,  now  !"  George  went  on. 
"  But  in  a  quiet  country  place  in  England  !  The  thing 
seems  incredible  !  So  artistically  done  ! — no  struggle  : 
just  one  blow  right  to  the  heart,  and  the  assassin  gone 
as  if  by  magic  !  No  weapon  dropped  !  Nothing  to 
give  a  clue  !  The  whole  thing  suggests  a  practised 
hand.  But  why  such  a  one  for  the  victim  !  Had  it 
been  some  false  member  of  a  secret  society  thus  immo- 
lated, one  could  understand  it.  But  a  merry  girl  at  a 
ball  !  It  zs  strange.  I  should  like  to  try  the  unravelling 
of  it." 

"  Has  nothing,  then,  been  done  .^"  said  Helen  with  a 
gasp,  to  hide  which  she  moved  in  her  saddle  as  if  read- 
justing her  habit. 

"  Oh  !  every  thing — of  course  !    There  was  instant  pur- 


THE   RIDE.  213 


suit  on  the  discovery  of  the  body,  but  they  seem  to  have 
got  on  the  track  of  the  wrong  man — or  indeed,  for  any 
thing  certain,  of  no  man  at  all.  A  coast-guardsman  says 
that,  on  the  night,  or  rather  morning,  in  question,  he 
was  approaching  a  little  cove  on  the  shore,  not  above  a 
mile  from  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  with  an  eye  on 
what  seemed  to  be  two  fishermen  preparing  to  launch 
their  boat,  when  he  saw  a  third  man  come  running  down 
the  steep  slope  from  the  pastures  above,  and  jump  into 
the  stern  of  it.  Ere  he  could  reach  the  spot  they  were 
oflf  and  had  hoisted  two  lug-sails.  The  moon  was  in  the 
first  of  her  last  quarter,  and  gave  light  enough  for  what 
he  reported.  But  when  inquiries  founded  on  this  evi- 
dence were  made,  nothing  whatever  could  be  discovered 
concerning  boat  or  men.  The  next  morning  no  fishing- 
boat  was  lacking,  and  no  fisherman  would  confess  to 
having  gone  from  that  cove.  The  marks  of  the  boat's  keel 
and  of  the  men's  feet  on  the  sand,  if  there  ever  were 
any,  had  been  washed  out  by  the  tide.  It  was  concluded 
that  the  thing  had  been  pre-arranged  and  provided  for, 
and  that  the  murderer  had  escaped,  probably  to  Hol- 
land. Thereupon  telegrams  were  shot  in  all  directions, 
but  no  news  could  be  gathered  of  any  suspicious  landing 
on  the  opposite  coast.  There  the  matter  rests,  or  at 
least  has  rested  for  many  weeks.  Neither  parents,  rela- 
tives, nor  friends  appear  to  have  a  suspicion  of  any 
one." 

"  Are  there  no  conjectures  as  to  motives  }"  asked 
Helen,  feeling  with  joy  her  power  of  dissimulation 
gather  strength. 


214  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

"  No  end  of  them.  She  was  a  beautiful  creature,  they 
say,  sweet-tempered  as  a  dove,  and  of  course  fond  of  ad- 
miration—whence the  conjectures  all  turn  on  jealousy. 
The  most  likely  thing  seems,  that  she  had  some  squire 
of  low  degree,  of  whom  neither  parents  nor  friends 
knew  any  thing.  That  they  themselves  suspect  this,  ap- 
pears likely  from  their  more  than  apathy  with  regard  to 
the  discovery  of  the  villain.  I  am  strongly  inclined  to 
take  the  matter  in  hand  myself." 

"  We  must  get  him  out  of  the  country  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible," thought  Helen. — "  I  should  hardly  have  thought 
it  worthy  of  your  gifts,  George,"  she  said,  "  to  turn  po- 
liceman. For  my  part,  I  should  not  relish  hunting  down 
any  poor  wretch." 

"  The  sacrifice  of  individul  choice  is  a  claim  society 
has  upon  each  of  its  members,"  returned  Bascombe. 
"  Every  murderer  hanged,  or,  better,  imprisoned  for  life, 
is  a  gain  to  the  community." 

Helen  said  no  more,  and  presently  turned  homewards, 
on  the  plea  that  she  must  not  be  longer  absent  from  her 
invalid. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV, 


RACHEL    AND    HER     UNCLE. 


T  was  nearly  dark  when  they  arrived  again 
at  the  lodge.  Rachel  opened  the  gate  for 
them.  Without  even  a  thank  you,  they  rode 
out.  She  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  after 
them  through  the  dusk,  then  turned  with  a  sigh,  and 
went  into  the  kitchen,  where  her  uncle  sat  by  the  fire 
with  a  book  in  his  hand. 

"  How  I  should  like  to  be  as  well  made  as  Miss  Lin- 
gard  !"  she  said,  seating  herself  by  the  lamp  that  stood 
on  the  deal  table.  "  It  7nust  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  strong 
and  tall,  and  able  to  look  this  way  and  that  without 
turning  all  your  body  along  with  your  head,  like  the 
old  man  that  gathers  the  leeches  in  Wordsworth's 
poem.  And  what  it  must  be  to  sit  on  a  horse  as  she 
does  !  You  should  have  seen  her  go  flying  like  the 
very  wind  across  the  park  !  You  would  have  thought 
she  and  her  horse  were  cut  out  of  the  same  piece.  I'm 
dreadfully  envious,  uncle." 

"  No,  my  child  ;  I  know  you  better  than  you  do  your- 
self.    There  is  a  great  difference  between  /  wish  I  was 


2l6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

and  /  should  like  to  be — as  much  as  between  a  grumble 
and  a  prayer.  To  be  content  is  not  to  be  satisfied.  No 
one  ought  to  be  satisfied  with  the  imperfect.  It  is  God's 
will  that  we  should  bear,  and  contentedly — because  in 
hope,  looking  for  the  redemption  of  the  body.  And  we 
know  he  has  a  ready  servant  who  will  one  day  set  us 
free." 

"  Yes,  uncle  ;  I  understand.  You  know  I  enjoy  life  : 
how  could  I  help  it  and  you  with  me }  But  I  don't 
think  I  ever  go  through  the  churchyard  without  feeling 
a  sort  of  triumph.  '  There's  for  you  !  '  I  say  sometimes 
to  the  little  crooked  shadow  that  creeps  along  by  my 
side  across  the  graves.  *  You'll  soon  be  caught  and  put 
inside  ! '  But  how  am  I  to  tell  I  mayn't  be  crooked  in 
the  next  world  as  well  as  this  ?  That's  what  troubles 
me  at  times.  There  might  be  some  necessity  for  it, 
you  know." 

"  Then  will  there  be  patience  to  bear  it  there  also  ; — 
that  you  may  be  sure  of.  But  I  do  not  fear.  It  were 
more  likely  that  those  who  have  not  thanked  God,  but 
prided  themselves,  that  they  were  beautiful  in  this  world, 
should  be  crooked  in  the  next.  It  would  be  like  Dives 
and  Lazarus,  you  know.  But  God  does  what  is  best  for 
them  as  well  as  for  us.  We  shall  find  one  day  that 
beauty  and  riches  were  the  best  things  for  those  to 
whom  they  were  given,  as  deformity  and  poverty  were 
the  best  for  us." 

"  I  wonder  what  sort  of  person  I  would  have  been 
if  I  had  had  a  straight  spine  !"  said  Rachel,  laughing. 


RACHEL   AND    HER   UNCLE.  217 

"  Hardly  one  so  dear  to  your  deformed  uncle,"  said 
her  companion  in  ugliness. 

"Then  I'm  glad  I  am  as  1  am,"  rejoined  Rachel. 

"  This  conscious  individuality  of  ours,"  said  Polwarth, 
after  a  thoughtful  silence,  "  is  to  me  an  awful  thing — 
the  one  thing  that  seems  in  humanity  like  the  onliness 
of  God.  Mine  terrifies  me  sometimes — looking  a  stran- 
ger to  me-r-a  limiting  of  myself — a  breaking  in  upon  my 
existence —like  a  volcanic  outburst  into  the  blue  Sicilian 
air.  When  it  thus  manifests  itself,  I  find  no  refuge  but 
the  offering  of  it  back  to  him  who  thought  it  worth 
making.  I  say  to  him,  '  Lord,  it  is  thine,  not  mine  ; 
see  to  it.  Lord.  Thou  and  thy  eternity  are  mine,  Father 
of  Jesus  Christ.'  " 

He  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  his  lips  grew 
white  and  trembled.  Thought  had  turned  into  prayer, 
and  both  were  silent  for  a  space.  Rachel  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"  I  think  I  understand,  uncle,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
mind  being  God's  dwarf.  But  I  would  rather  be  made 
after  his  own  image  :  this  can't  be  it.  I  should  like  fo 
be  made  over  again." 

"And  if  the  hope  we  are  saved  by  be  no  mockery,  if 
St.  Paul  was  not  the  fool  of  his  own  radiant  imaginings, 
you  will  be,  my  child.  But  now  let  us  forget  our  mise- 
rable bodies.  Come  up  to  my  room,  and  I  will  read 
you  a  few  lines  that  came  to  me  this  morning  in  the 
park," 

"  Won't  you  wait  for  Mr.  Wingfold,  uncle  }    He  will 


2l8  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

be  here  yet,  1  think.  It  can't  be  ten  o'clock  yet.  He 
always  looks  in  on  Saturdays  as  he  goes  home  from  his 
walk.  I  should  like  you  to  read  them  to  him  too.  They 
will  do  him  good,  I  know." 

"  I  would,  my  dear,  willingly,  if  I  thought  he  would 
care  for  them.  But  I  don't  think  he  would.  They  are 
not  good  enough  verses.  He  has  been  brought  up  on 
Horace,  and  I  fear  counts  the  best  poetry  the  neatest." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  there,  uncle  ;  I  have 
heard  him  talk  delightfully  about  poetry." 

"  You  must  excuse  me  if  I  am  shy  of  reading  my  poor 
work  to  any  but  yourself,  Rachel.  My  heart  was  so 
much  in  it,  and  the  subject  is  so  sacred — " 

"  I  am  sorry  you  should  think  your  pearls  too  good  to 
cast  before  Mr.  Wingfold,  uncle,"  said  Rachel,  with  a 
touch  of  disappointed  temper. 

"  Nay,  nay,  child  !"  returned  Polwarth,  "  that  was  not 
a  good  thing  to  say.  What  gives  me  concern  is  that 
there  is  so  much  of  the  rough  dirty  shell  sticking  about 
them,  that  to  show  them  would  be  to  wrong  the  truth 
in  them." 

Rachel  seldom  took  long  to  repent.  She  came  slowly 
to  her  uncle,  where  he  stood  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand, 
looking  in  his  f-ace  with  a  heavenly  contrition,  and  say- 
ing nothing.  When  she  reached  him,  she  dropped  on 
her  knees  and  kissed  the  hand  that  hung  by  his  side. 
Her  temper  was  poor  Rachel's  one  sore-felt  trouble. 

Polwarth  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead, 
raised  her,  and  leading  her  to  the  stair,  stood  aside  to 


RACHEL  AND  HER  UNCLE.  219 


let  her  go  first.  But  when  she  had  been  naughty  Ra- 
chel would  never  go  before  her  uncle,  and  she  drew 
back.  With  a  smile  of  intelligence  he  yielded  and  led 
the  way.  But  ere  they  had  climbed  to  the  top,  Rachel 
heard  Mr.  Wingfold's  step,  and  went  down  again  to  re- 
ceive him. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 


A     DREAM. 


NVITED  to  ascend,  Wingfold  followed  Rachel 
to  her  uncle's  room,  and  there,  whether 
guided  by  her  or  not,  the  conversation  pre- 
sently took  such  a  turn  that  at  length,  of  his 
own  motion,  Polwarth  ofifered  to  read  his  verses.  From 
the  drawer  of  his  table  he  took  a  scratched  and  scored 
half-sheet,  and — not  in  the  most  melodious  of  voices, 
yet  in  one  whose  harshness  and  weakness  could  not 
cover  a  certain  refinement  of  spiritual  tenderness — read 
as  follows  : 

Lord,  hear  my  discontent :  All  blank  I  stand, 

A  mirror  polished  by  thy  hand  ; 

Thy  sun's  beams  flash  and  flame  from  me- 

I  can  not  help  it :  here  I  stand,  there  he  ; 

To  one  of  them  I  can  not  say, 

Go,  and  on  yonder  water  play. 

Nor  one  poor  ragged  daisy  can  I  fashion — 

I  do  not  make  the  words  of  this  my  limping  passion. 


A    DREAM.  221 


If  I  should  say,  Now  I  will  think  a  thought, 

Lo  !  I  must  wait,  unknowing, 

What  thought  in  me  is  growing, 

Until  the  thing  to  birth  is  brought ; 

Nor  know  I  then  what  next  will  come 

From  out  the  gulf  of  silence  dumb. 

I  am  the  door  the  thing  did  find 

lb  pass  into  the  general  mind  ; 

I  can  not  say  I  think— 

I  only  stand  upon  the  thought-well's  brink  ; 

From  darkness  to  the  sun  the  water  bubbles  up — 

I  lift  it  in  m}^  cup. 

Thou  only  thinkest — I  am  thought ; 

Me  and  my  thought  thou  thinkest.     Nought 

Am  I  but  as  a  fountain  spout 

From  which  thy  water  welleth  out. 

Thou  art  the  only  One,  the  All  in  all. 

— Yet  when  my  soul  on  thee  doth  call 

And  thou  dost  answer  out  of  everywhere, 

\  in  thy  allness  have  my  perfect  share. 

Tb  le  he  read  Rachel  crept  to  his  knee,  knelt  down, 
dr\^\  \t  \d  her  head  upon  it. 

l\  f^iQ  are  but  the  creatures  of  a  day,  yet  surely  were 
the  badow-joys  of  this  miserable  pair  not  merely  no- 
ble' in  their  essence,  but  finer  to  the  soul's  palate  than 
th<'  •  hadow-joys  of  young  Hercules  Bascombe — Helen 
ar.r^-  horses  and  all  !  Poor  Helen  I  can  not  use  for 
comparison,  for  she  had  no  joy,  save,  indeed,  the  very 
divine,  though  at  present  unblossoming,  one  of  sisterly 
love.     Still,  and  notwithstanding,  if  the  facts  of  life  are 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


those  of  George  Bascombe's  indorsing — and  he  can  prove 
it,  let  us  by  all  means  learn  and  accept  them,  be  they  the 
worst  possible.  Meantiine  there  are  truths  that  ought 
to  be  facts,  and  until  he  has  proved  that  there  is  no 
God,  some  of  us  will  go  feeling  after  him  if  haply  we 
may  find  him,  and  in  him  the  truths^  we  long  to  find 
true.  Some  of  us  perhaps  think  we  have  seen  him 
from  afar,  but  we  only  know  the  better  that  in  the 
mood  wherein  such  as  Bascombe  are  they  will  never 
find  him — which  would  no  doubt  be  to  them  a  comfort 
were  it  not  for  a  laughter.  And  if  he  be  such  as  their 
idea  of  what  we  think  him,  they  are  better  without  him. 
If  on  the  contrary  he  be  what  some  of  us  really  think 
him,  their  not  seeking  him  will  not  perhaps  prevent  him 
from  finding  them. 

From  likeness  of  nature,  community  of  feeling,  con- 
stant intercourse,  and  perfect  confidence,  Rachel  under- 
stood her  uncle's  verses  with  sufficient  ease  to  enjoy 
them  at  once  in  part,  and,  for  the  rest,  to  go  on  thinking 
in  the  direction  in  which  they  would  carry  her  ;  but 
Wingfold,  in  whom  honesty  of  disposition  had  blossomed 
at  last  into  honesty  of  will  and  action,  after  fitting 
pause,  during  which  no  word  was  spoken,  said, 

"  Mr.  Polwarth,  where  verse  is  concerned  I  am  simply 
stupid  :  when  read,  lean  not  follow  it.  I  did  not  under- 
stand the  half  of  that  poem.  I  never  have  been  a  stu- 
dent of  English  verse,  and  indeed  that  part  of  my  nature 
which  has  to  do  with  poetry  has  been  a  good  deal  neg- 
lected. Will  you  let  me  take  those  verses  home  with 
me?" 


A    DREAM.  223 


"  I  can  not  do  that,  for  they  are  not  legible  ;  but  I  will 
copy  them  out  for  you." 

"  Will  you  give  me  them  to-morrow  ?  Shall  you  bs 
at  church  ?" 

"  That  shall  be  just  as  you  please  :  would  you  rather 
have  me  there  or.  not  ?" 

"  A  thousand  times  rather,"  answered  the  curate. 
"  To  have  one  man  there  who  knows  what  I  mean  bet- 
ter than  I  can  say  it,  is  to  have  a  double  soul  and  dou- 
ble courage. — But  I  came  to-night  mainly  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  been  much  puzzled  this  last  week  to  know 
how  I  ought  to  regard  the  Bible — I  mean  as  to  its  inspi- 
ration.    What  am  I  to  say  about  it  ?" 

"  Those  are  two  distinct  things.  Why  think  of  saying 
about  it  before  you  have  any  thing  to  say  ?  For  your- 
self, however,  let  me  ask  if  you  have  not  already  found 
in  the  book  the  highest  means  of  spiritual  education 
and  development  you  have  yet  met  with  ?  If  so,  may 
not  that  suffice  for  the  present  ?  It  is  the  man  Christ 
Jesus  we  have  to  know,  and  the  Bible  we  have  to  use  to 
that  end— not  for  theory  or  dogma.— I  will  tell  you  a 
strange  dream  I  had  once,  not  long  ago." 

Rachel's  face  brightened.  She  rose,  got  a  little  stool, 
and  setting  it  down  close  by  the  chair  on  which  her  un- 
cle was  perched,  seated  herself  at  his  feet,  with  her  eyes 
on  the  ground,  to  Hsten. 

"  About  two  years  ago,"  said  Polwarth,  "  a  friend  sent 
me  Tauchnitz's  edition  of  the  English  New  Testament. 
which  has  the  different  readings  of  the  three  oldest 
known  manuscripts   translated  at  the  foot  of  the  page. 


224  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

The  edition  was  prepared  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  show- 
ing the  results  of  the  collation  of  the  Sinaitic  manu- 
script, the  oldest  of  all,  so  named  because  it  was  found 
— a  few  years  ago,  by  Tischendorf — in  a  monastery  on 
Mount  Sinai — nowhere  else  than  there  !  I  received  it 
with  such  exultation  as  brought  on  an  attack  of  asthma, 
and  I  could  scarce  open  it  for  a  week,  but  lay  with  it 
under  my  pillow.  When  1  did  come  to  look  at  it,  my 
main  wonder  was  to  find  the  diflerences  from  the 
common  version  so  few  and  small.  Still  there  were 
some  such  as  gave  rise  to  a  feeling  far  above  mere  in- 
terest— one  in  particular,  the  absence  of  a  word  that  had 
troubled  me,  not  seeming  like  a  word  of  our  Lord,  or 
consonant  with  his  teaching.  I  am  unaware  whether 
the  passage  has  ever  given  rise  to  controversy." 

"  May  I  ask  what  word  it  was  ?"  interrupted  Wingfold 
eagerly. 

"  I  will  not  say,"  returned  Polwarth.  "  Not  having 
troubled  you,  you  would  probably  only  wonder  why  it 
should  have  troubled  me.  For  my  purpose  in  men- 
tioning the  matter,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  I  had  turned 
with  eagerness  to  the  passage  wherein  it  occurs,  as  given 
in  two  of  the  gospels  in  our  version.  Judge  my  delight  in 
discovering  that  in  the  one  gospel  the  whole  passage  was 
omitted  by  the  two  oldest  manuscripts,  and  in  the  other 
just  the  one  word  that  had  troubled  me  by  the  same  two. 
I  would  not  have  you  suppose  me  foolish  enough  to  ima- 
gine that  the  oldest  manuscript  must  be  the  most  cor- 
rect;  but  you  will  at  once  understand  the  sense  of  room 
and  air  which  the  discovery  gave  me  notwithstanding, 


A   DREAM.  225 


and  I  mention  it  because  it  goes  both  to  account  for  the 
dream  that  followed  and  to  enforce  its  truth.  Pray  do 
not,  however,  imagine  me  a  believer  in  dreams  more 
than  in  any  other  source  of  mental  impressions.  If  a 
dream  reveal  a  princijDle,  that  principle  is  a  revelation, 
and  the  dream  is  neither  more  nor  less  valuable  than  a 
waking  thought  that  does  the  same.  The  truth  con- 
veyed is  the  revelation.  I  do  not  deny  that  facts  have 
been  learned  in  dreams,  but  I  would  never  call  the  com- 
munication of  a  mere  fact  a  revelation.  Truth  alone, 
beheld  as  such  by  the  soul,  is  worthy  of  the  name. 
Facts,  however,  may  themselves  be  the  instruments  of 
such  revelation. 

"  The  dream  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  was  clearly 
enough  led  up  to  by  my  waking  thoughts.  For  I  had 
been  saying  to  myself  ere  I  fell  asleep,  '  On  the  very 
Mount  Sinai  that  once  burned  with  heavenly  fire  and 
resounded  with  the  thunder  of  a  visible  Presence,  now 
old  and  cold,  and  swathed  in  the  mists  of  legend  and 
doubt,  was  discovered  the  most  reverend,  because  most 
ancient,  record  of  the  new  dispensation  which  dethroned 
that  m.ountain  and  silenced  the  thunders  of  the  peda- 
gogue law  !  Is  it  not  possible  that  yet,  in  some  ancient 
convent,  insignificant  to  the  eye  of  the  traveller  as  mo- 
dern Nazareth  would  be  but  for  its  ancient  story,  some 
one  of  the  original  gospel-manuscripts  may  lie,  truthful 
and  unblotted  from  the  hand  of  the  very  evangelist  .-^ 
O  lovely  parchment!'  I  thought  —  'if  eye  of  man 
might  but  see  thee  !  if  lips  of  man  might  kiss  Ihee  !  ' 
and  my  heart  swelled  like  the  heart  of  a  Ijver  at  the 


226  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

thought  of  such  a  boon.  Now,  as  you  know,  I  live  in  a 
sort  of  Hve  coffin  here,"  continued  the  Httle  man,  strik- 
ing his  pigeon-breast,  "with  a  barrel-organ  of  dis- 
cords in  it,  constantly  out  of  order  in  one  way  or  an- 
other ;  and  hence  it  comes  that  my  sleep  is  so  imperfect, 
and  my  dreams  run  more  than  is  usual,  as  I  believe,  on 
in  the  direction  of  my  last  waking  thoughts.  Well,  that 
night,  I  dreamed  thus  :  I  was  in  a  desert.  It  was  neither 
day  nor  night  to  me.  I  saw  neither  sun,  moon,  nor 
stars.  A  heavy  yet  half-luminous  cloud  hung  over  the 
visible  earth.  My  heart  was  beating  fast  and  high,  for 
I  was  journeying  towards  a  certain  Armenian  convent, 
where  I  had  good  ground  for  hoping  I  should  find  the 
original  manuscript  of  the  fourth  gospel,  the  very  hand- 
writing of  the  apostle  John.  That  the  old  man  did  not 
write  it  himself,  I  never  thought  of  that  in  my  dream. 

"  After  I  had  walked  on  for  a  long,  any  thing  but  weary 
time,  I  saw  the  level  horizon  line  before  me  broken  by 
a  rock,  as  it  seemed,  rising  from  the  plain  of  the  desert. 
I  knew  it  was  the  monastery.  It  was  many  miles  away, 
and  as  I  journeyed  on,  it  grew  and  grew,  until  it  swelled 
huge  as  a  hill  against  the  sky.  At  length  I  came  up  to 
the  door,  iron-clamped,  deep-set  in  a  low,  thick  wall.  It 
stood  wide  open.  I  entered,  crossed  a  court,  reached 
the  door  of  the  monastery  itself,  and  again  entered. 
Every  door  to  which  I  came  stood  open,  but  priest  nor 
guide  came  to  meet  me,  and  I  saw  no  man,  and  at  length 
looked  for  none,  but  used  my  best  judgment  to  get  deep- 
er and  deeper  into  the  building,  for  I  scarce  doubted 
that  in  its  inmost  penetralia  I  should  find  the  treasure  I 


A    DREAM.  i27 


sought.  At  last  I  stood  before  a  door  hung  with  a  cur- 
tain of  rich  workmanship,  torn  in  the  middle  from  top 
to  bottom.  Through  the  rent  I  passed  into  a  stone  cell. 
In  the  cell  stood  a  table.  On  the  table  was  a  closed 
book.  Oh  !  how  my  heart  beat  !  Never  but  then  have  I 
known  the  feeling  of  utter  preciousness  in  a  thing  pos- 
sessed. What  doubts  and  fears  would  not  this  one 
lovely,  oh  !  unutterably  beloved  volume,  lay  at  rest  for- 
ever !  How  my  eyes  would  dwell  upon  every  stroke  of 
every  letter  the  hand  of  the  dearest  disciple  had  formed  ! 
Nearly  eighteen  hundred  years — and  there  it  lay  ! — and 
there  was  a  man  who  did  hear  the  Master  say  the  words, 
and  did  set  them  down  !  I  stood  motionless,  and  my 
soul  seemed  to  wind  itself  among  the  leaves,  while  my 
body  stood  like  a  pillar  of  salt,  lost  in  its  own  gaze.  At 
last,  with  sudden  daring,  I  made  a  step  towards  the  ta- 
ble, and,  bending  with  awe,  outstretched  my  hand  to  lay 
it  upon  the  book.  But  ere  my  hand  reached  it,  another 
hand,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  appeared  upon 
it— an  old,  blue-veined,  but  powerful  hand.  I  looked 
up.  There  stood  the  beloved  disciple  !  His  counte- 
nance was  as  a  mirror  frora  which  shone  back  the  face 
of  the  Master.  Slowly  he  lifted  the  book,  and  turned 
away.  Then  first  I  saw  behind  him  as  it  were  an  altar 
whereon  a  fire  of  wood  was  burning,  and  a  pang  of  dis- 
may shot  to  my  heart,  for  I  knew  what  he  was  about  to 
do.  He  laid  the  book  on  the  burning  wood,  and  re- 
garded it  with  a  smile  as  it  shrunk  and  shrivelled  and 
smouldered  to  ashes.  Then  he  turned  to  me  and  said, 
while  a  perfect  heaven  of  peace  shone  in  his  eyes  :  '  Son 


228  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

of  man,  the  Word  of  God  liveth  and  abideth  forever,  not 
in  the  volume  of  the  book,  but  in  the  heart  of  the  man 
that  in  love  obeyeth  him.'  And  therewith  I  awoke 
weeping,  but  with  the  lesson  of  my  dream." 

A  deep  silence  fell  on  the  little  company.  Then  said 
Wingfold, 

"  I  trust  I  have  the  lesson  too." 

He  rose,  shook  hands  with  them,  and,  without  an- 
other word,  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 


ANOTHER    SERMON. 


T  often  seems  to  those  in  earnest  about  the 
right  as  if  all  things  conspired  to  prevent 
their  progress.  This,  of  course,  is  but  an  ap- 
pearance, arising  in  part  from  this,  that  the 
pilgrim  must  be  headed  back  from  the  side-paths  into 
which  he  is  constantly  wandering.  To  Wingfold,  how- 
ever, it  seemed  that  all  things  fell  in  to  further  his 
quest,  which  will  not  be  so  surprising  if  we  remember 
that  his  was  no  intermittent  repentant  seeking,  but 
the  struggle  of  his  whole  energy.  And  there  are 
those  who  in  their  very  first  seeking  of  it  arc 
nearer  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  many 
who  hPQve  for  years  believed  themselves  of  it.  In 
the  former  there  is  more  of  the  mind  of  Jesus,  and  when 
4ie  calls  them,  they  recognise  him  at  once  and  go  alter 
him  ;  while  the  others  examine  him  from  head  to  foot, 
and  finding  him  not  sufficiently  like  the  Jesus  of  their 
conception,  turn  their  backs,  and  go  to  church  or  chnp- 
el  or  chamber  to  kneel  before  a  vague  form  mingled  of 


230  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

tradition  and  fancy.  But  the  first  shall  be  last  and  the 
last  first,  and  there  are  from  whom,  be  it  penny  or  be 
it  pound,  what  they  have  must  be  taken  away  because 
with  them  it  lies  useless. 

For  Wingfold,  he  soon  found  that  his  nature  was  be- 
ing stirred  to  depths  unsuspected  before.  Hitherto  no- 
thing had  ever  roused  him  togenuine  activity  :  his  histo- 
ry was  not  very  happy,  his  life  not  very  interesting,  his 
work  not  congenial,  and  paying  itself  in  no  satisfaction, 
his  pleasures  of  a  cold  and  common  intellectual  sort,  he 
had  dragged  along,  sustained,  without  the  sense  of  its 
sustentation,  by  the  germ  within  him  of  a  slowly-devel- 
oping honesty.  But  now  that  Conscience  had  got  up 
into  the  guard's  seat,  and  Will  had  taken  the  reins,  he 
found  all  his  intellectual  faculties  in  full  play,  keeping 
well  together,  heads  up  and  traces  tight,  while  the  out- 
rider Imagination,  with  his  spotted  dog  Fancy,  was 
always  far  ahead,  but  never  beyond  the  sound  of  the 
guard's  horn  ;  and  ever  as  they  went,  object  after  object 
hitherto  beyond  the  radius  of  his  interest  rose  on  the 
horizon  of  question,  and  began  to  glimmer  in  the  dawn 
of  human  relation. 

His  first  sermon  is  enough  to  show  that  he  had  begun 
to  have  thoughts  of  his  own — a  very  different  thin|^  from 
the  entertaining  of  the  thoughts  of  others,  however  well 
we  may  feed  and  lodge  them — thoughts  which  came  to 
him  not  as  things  which  sought  an  entrance,  but  as 
things  that  sought  an  exit — cried  for  forms  of  embodi- 
ment that  they  might  pass  out  of  the  infinite,  and  by  in- 
carnation b3Come  communicable. 


ANOTHER   SERMON.  23! 

The  news  of  that  strange  first  sermon  had  of  course 
spread  througli  the  town,  and  the  people  came  to  church 
the  next  Sunday  in  crowds — twice  as  many  as  the  usual 
assembly — some  who  went  seldom,  some  who' went  no-  [ 
where,  some  who  belonged  to  other  congregations  and 
communities — mostly  bent  on  witnessing  whatever  ec- 
centricity the  very  peculiar  young  man  might  be  guilty 
of  next,  but  having  a  few  among  them  who  were  sym- 
pathetically interested  in  seeing  how  far  his  call,  if  call 
it  was,  would  lead  him. 

His  second  sermon  was  to  the  same  purport  as  the 
first.  Proposing  no  text,  he  spoke  to  the  following 
effect,  and  indeed  the  following  are  of  the  very  words  he 
uttered  : 

"The  church  wherein  you  now  listen,  my  hearers, 
the  pulpit  wherein  I  now  speak,  staiid  here  from  of  old 
in  the  name  of  Christianity.  What  is  Christianity?  I 
know  but  one  definition,  the  analysis  of  which,  if  the 
thing  in  question  be  a  truth,  must  be  the  joyous  labor 
of  every  devout  heart  to  all  eternity.  For  Christianity 
does  not  mean  what  you  think  or  what  I  think  con- 
cerning Christ,  but  what  zs  of  Christ.  My  Christianity, 
if  ever  I  come  to  have  any,  will  be  what  of  Christ  is  in 
me  ;  your  Christianity  now  is  what  of  Christ  is  in  you. 
Last  Sunday  I  showed  you  our  Lord's  very  words— that 
he,  and  no  other,  was  his  disciple  wlio  did  what  he  told 
him— and  said,  therefore,  that  I  dared  not  call  myself  a 
disciple.  I  say  the  same  thing  in  saying  now  that  I  dare 
not  call  myself  a  Christian,  lest  I  should  offend  him  with 
my  '  Lord,  Lord  !  '     Still  it  is,  and  I  can  not  now  help 


232  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

it,  in  the  name  of  Christianity  that  I  here  stand.  I  have 
—alas  !  with  blameful  and  appalling  thoughtlessness  !— 
subscribed  my  name,  as  a  believer,  to  the  articles  of  the 
Church  of  England,  with  no  better  reason  than  that  1 
was  unaware  of  any  dissent  therefrom,  and  have  been 
ordained  one  of  her  ministers.  The  relations  into  which 
this  has  brought  me  I  do  not  feel  justified  in  severing  at 
once,  lest  I  should  therein  seem  to  deny  that  which  its 
own  illumination  may  yet  show  me  to  be  true,  and  I  desire 
therefore  a  little  respite  and  room  for  thought  and  re- 
solve. But  meantime  it  remains  my  business,  as  an 
honest  man  in  the  employment  of  the  church,  to  do  my 
best  towards  the  setting  forth  of  the  claims  of  him  upon 
whom  that  church  is  founded,  and  in  whose  name  she 
exists.  As  one  standing  on  the  outskirts  of  a  listening 
Galilean  crowd,  a  word  comes  now  and  then  to  my  hun- 
gry ears  and  hungrier  heart :  I  turn  and  tell  it  again  to 
you — not  that  ye  have  not  heard  it  also,  but  that  I  may 
stir  you  up  to  ask  yourselves  :  '  Do  I  t  len  obey  this 
word  ?  Have  1  ever,  have  I  once,  sought  to  obey  it  ? 
Am  I  a  pupil  of  Jesus  ?  Am  I  a  Christian  ?  '  Hear 
then  of  his  words.  For  me,  they  fill  my  heart  with 
doubt  and  dismay. 

"  The  Lord  says,  Loz'e  your  enemies.  Sayest  thou,  It 
is  impossible  ?  Then  dost  thou  mock  the  word  of  him 
who  said,  /  am  the  Truth,  and  hast  no  part  in  him. 
Sayest  thou,  Alas  !  I  can  not  ?  Thou  sayest  true,  I  doubt 
not.  But  hast  thou  tried  whether  he  who  made  will  not 
increase  the  strength  put  forth  to  obey  him  ? 

"The   Lord  says,  Be  ye  perfect.     Dost  thou  then  aiiTi 


ANOTHER   SERMON.  233 

after  perfection,  or  dost  thou  excuse  thy  willful  short- 
comings, and  say  To  err  is  human— nor  hopest  that 
it  may  also  be  found  human  to  grow  divine  ?  Then  ask 
thyself,  for  thou  hast  good  cause,  whether  thou  hast 
any  part  in  him. 

"  The  Lord  said.  Lay  tiot  up  for  yourselves  treasures  on 
earth.  My  part  is  not  now  to  preach  against  the  love 
of  money,  but  to  ask  you.  Are  you  laying  up  for  your- 
selves treasures  on  earth  ?  As  to  what  the  command 
means,  the  honest  heart  and  the  dishonest  must  each  set- 
tle it  in  his  own  way  ;  but  if  your  heart  condemn  you, 
what  I  have  to  say  is,  Call  not  yourselves  Christians, 
but  consider  whether  you  ought  not  to  become  disciples 
indeed.  No  doubt  you  can  instance  this,  that,  and  the 
other  man  who  does  as  you  do,  and  of  whom  yet  no  man 
dreams  of  questioning  the  Christianity  :  it  matters  not 
a  hair  ;  all  that  goes  but  to  say  that  you  are  pagans  to- 
gether. Do  not  mistake  me  :  I  judge  you  not.  But  I 
ask  you,  as  mouthpiece  most  unworthy  of  that  Christi- 
anity in  the  name  of  which  this  building  stands  and  we 
are  met  therein,  to  judge  your  own  selves  by  the  words 
of  its  founder. 

"The  Lord  said.  Take  710  thought  for  your  life.  Take 
no  thought  for  the  jtiorrow.  Explain  it  as  you  may  or 
can  ;  but  ask  yourselves,  Do  I  take  no  thought  for  my 
life  ?  Do  I  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow  ?  and  an- 
swer to  yourselves  whether  or  no  ye  are  Christians. 

"  The  Lord  says,  Judge  not.  Didst  thou  judge  thy 
neighbor  yesterday  ?  Wilt  thou  judge  him  again  to- 
morrow }    Art  thou  judging  him  now  in  the  very  heart 


234  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

that  within  thy  bosom  sits  hearing  the  words  Judge  not  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  ask  yet  again,  Who  is  my  neighbor? 
How  then  canst  thou  look  to  be  of  those  that  shall  en- 
ter through  the  gates  into  the  city  ?  I  tell  thee  not,  for 
I  profess  not  yet  to  know  anything,  but  doth  not  thine 
own  profession  of  Christianity  counsel  thee  to  fall  up- 
on thy  face,  and  cry  to  him  whom  thou  mockest.  '  I  am 
a  sinful  man,  O  Lord  '  ? 

"The  Lord  said.  All  things  whatsoever  ye  luould  that 
men  should  do  to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  the?n.  Ye  that  buy 
and  sell,  do  you  obey  this  law  ?  Examine  yourselves  and 
see.  Ye  would  that  men  should  deal  fairly  by  you  :  do 
you  deal  fairly  by  them  as  ye  would  count  fairness  in 
them  to  you  ?  If  conscience  makes  you  hang  the  head 
inwardly,  however  you  sit  with  it  erect  in  the  pew,  dare 
you  add  to  your  crime  against  the  law  and  the  prophets 
the  insult  to  Christ  of  calling  yourselves  his  disciples? 

"  A^ot  every  one  that  saith  unto  me  Lord,  Lord,  shall  eti- 
ter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  but  he  that  docth  the  will 
of  my  Father  which  is  in  heaven.  He  will  none  but  those 
who  with  him  do  the  will  \)f  the  Father." 


i 

Six 

41 

CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

NURSING. 

HAVE  of  course  given  but  the  spine  and 
ribs,  as  it  were,  of  the  sermon.  There  is  no 
place  for  more.  It  is  enough,  however, 
to  show  that  he  came  to  the  point — and 
what  can  be  better  in  preaching  ?  Certainly  he  was 
making  the  best  of  the  blunder  that  had  led  him  up 
into  that  pulpit !  And  on  the  other  hand,  whatever 
might  be  the  various  judgments  and  opinions  of  his 
hearers  in  respect  of  the  sermon — a  thing  about  which 
the  less  any  preacher  allows  himself  to  think  the  better 
— many  of  them  did  actually  feel  that  he  had  been 
preaching  to  them,  which  is  saying  much.  Even  Mrs. 
Ramshorn  was  more  silent  than  usual  as  they  went 
home,  and  although — not  having  acquainted  herself, 
amongst  others,  with  the  sermons  of  Latimer — she  was 
profoundly  convinced  that  such  preaching  was  alto- 
gether contrary  to  the  tradition,  usage,  and  tone  of  the 
English  Church,  of  which  her  departed  dean  remained 
to  her  the  unimpeachable  embodiment  and  type,  the 
sole  remark  she  made  was  that  Mr.  Wingfold  took  quite 


236  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


too  much  pains  to  prove   himself  a  pagan.     Mr.   Bas- 
combe  was  in  the  same  mind  as  before. 

"  I  Hl^e  the  fellow,"  he  said.  "  He  says  what  he 
means,  fair  and  full,  and  no  shilly-shallying.  It's  all 
great  rubbish,  of  course  !" 

And  the  widow  of  the  dean  of  blessed  memory  had  not 
a  word  to  say  in  defense  of  the  sermon,  but,  for  her,  let 
it  go  as  the  great  rubbish  he  called  it.  Indeed,  not 
knowing  the  real  mind  of  her  nephew,  she  was  nothing 
less  than  gratified  to  hear  from  him  an  opinion  so  com- 
fortably hostile  to  that  of  this  most  uncomfortable  of 
curates,  whom  you  never  could  tell  where  to  have,  and 
whom  never  since  he  had  confessed  to  wrong  in  the  read- 
ing of  his  uncle's  sermons,  and  thus  unwittingly  cast  a 
reproach  upon  the  memory  of  him  who  had  departed 
from  the  harassed  company  of  deans  militant  to  the 
blessed  company  of  deans  triumphant,  had  she  invited 
to  share  at  her  table  of  the  good  things  left  behind. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  him  home  to  dinner,  aunt.''" 
said  Bascombe,  after  a  pause  unbroken  by  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn. 

"  Why  should  I,  George  ?  "  returned  his  aunt.  "  Has 
he  not  been  abusing  us  all  at  a  most  ignorant  and  furi- 
ous rate  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  know,"  said  the  nephew,  and  held  his 
peace.  Nor  did  the  aunt  perceive  the  sarcasm  for  the 
sake  of  pointing  which  he  was  silent.  But  it  was  not 
lost,  and  George  was  paid  in  full  by  the  flicker  of  a  faint 
smile  across  Helen's  face. 

As  for  Helen,  the  sermon  had  indeed  laid  a  sort  of 


NURSING.  237 


feebly  electrical  hold  upon  her,  the  mere  nervous  influ- 
ence of  honesty  and  earnestness.  But  she  could  not 
accuse  herself  of  having  ever  made  a  prominent  profes- 
sion of  Christianity,  confirmation  and  communion  not- 
withstanding ;  and  besides,  had  she  not  now  all  but  ab- 
jured the  whole  thing  in  her  heart?  so  that  if  every 
word  of  what  he  said  was  true,  not  a  word  of  it  could  be 
applied  to  her  !  and  what  time  had  she  to  think  about 
such  far-away  things  as  had  happened  eighteen  centu- 
ries ago,  when  there  was  her  one  darling  pining  away 
with  a  black  weight  on  his  heart  ! 

For,  although  Leopold  was  gradually  recovering,  a 
supreme  dejection,  for  which  his  weakness  was  insuffi- 
cient to  account,  prostrated  his  spirit,  and  at  length 
drove  Mr.  Faber  to  ask  Helen  whether  she  knew  of  any 
disappointment  or  other  source  of  mental  suffering 
that  could  explain  it.  She  told  him  of  the  habit  he  had 
formed,  and  asked  whether  his  being  deprived  of  the 
narcotic  might  not  be  the  cause.  He  accepted  the  sug- 
gestion, and  set  himself,  not  without  some  success,  to 
repair  the  injury  the  abuse  had  occasioned.  Still,  al- 
though his  physical  condition  plainly  improved,  the  de- 
jection continued,  and  Mr.  Faber  was  thrown  back  upon 
his  former  conjecture.  Learning  nothing,  however,  and 
yet  finding  that,  as  lie  advanced  towards  health,  his  de- 
jection plainly  deepened,  he  began  at  length  to  fear 
softening  of  the  brain,  but  could  discover  no  other 
symptom  of  such  disease. 

The  earnestness  of  the  doctor's  quest  after  a  cause 
for  what  any  one  might  observe  added  greatly  to  Hel- 


238  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

en's  uneasiness  ;  and  besides,  the  fact  itself  began  to 
undermine  the  hope  of  his  innocence  which  had  again 
sprung  up  and  almost  grown  to  assurance  in  the 
absence  of  any  fresh  contradiction  from  without.  Also, 
as  his  health  returned,  his  sleep  became  more  troubled  ; 
he  dreamed  more,  and  showed  by  his  increased  agi- 
tation in  his  dreams  that  they  were  more  painful.  In 
this  respect  his  condition  was  at  the  worst  always  be- 
tween two  and  three  o'cloi:k  in  the  morning  ;  and  hav- 
ing perceived  this  fact,  Helen  would  never  allow  any 
one  to  sit  up  with  him  the  first  part  of  the  night  ex- 
cept herself. 

Increased  anxiety  and  continued  watching  soon  told 
upon  her  healtn  yet  more  severely,  and  she  lost  appetite 
and  complexion.  Still  she  slept  well  during  the  latter 
part  of  the  morning,  and  was  always  down  before  her 
aunt  had  finished  breakfast ;  and  it  was  in  vain  that 
aunt  and  doctor  and  nurse  all  expostulated  with  her 
upon  the  excess  of  her  ministration  :  nothing  should 
make  her  yield  her  post  until  her  brother  was  himself 
again.  Nor  was  she  without  her  reward,  and  that  a 
sufficing  one— in  the  love  and  gratitude  with  which  Leo- 
pold clung  to  her. 

During  the  day,  also,  she  spent  every  moment,  except 
such  as  she  passed  in  the  open  air  and  at  table  with  her 
aunt,  by  his  bedside,  reading  and  talking  to  him  ;  but 
y€t  not  a  single  ailusion  had  been  rrtade  to  the  fright- 
ful secret. 

At  length  he  was  so  much  better  that  there  was  no 
longer  need  for  any  one  to  sit  up  with  him  ;  but  then 


NURSING.  239 


Helen  had  her  bed  put  in  the  dressing-room  that  at  one 
o'clock  she  might  be  by  his  side,  to  sit  there  until  three 
should  be  well  over  and  gone. 

Thus  she  gave  up  her  whole  life  to  him,  and  doubtless 
thereby  gained  much  fresh  interest  in  it  for  herself. 
But  the  weight  of  the  secret  and  the  dread  of  the  law 
were  too  much  for  her,  and  were  gradually  undermin- 
ing that  strength  of  dissimulation  in  which  she  had 
trusted,  and  which,  in  respect  of  cheerfulness,  she  had 
to  exercise  towards  her  brother  as  well  as  her  aunt. 
She  struggled  hard,  for  if  those  weak,  despairing  eyes  ot 
his  were  to  encounter  weakness  and  despair  in  hers, 
madness  itself  would  be  at  the  door  for  both.  She  had 
come  nearly  to  the  point  of  discovering  that  the  soul  is 
not  capable  of  generating  its  own  requirements,  that 
it  needs  to  be  supplied  from  a  well  whose  springs  lie 
deeper  than  its  own  soil,  in  the  infinite  All,  namely, 
upon  which  that  soil  rests.  Happy  they  who  have 
found  that  those  sprmgs  have  an  outlet  in  their 
hearts — on  the  hill  of  pra3'er. 

It  was  very  difficult  to  lay  her  hands  on  reading  that 
suited  him.  Gifted  with  a  glowing  yet  delicate  east- 
ern imagination,  pampered  and  all  but  ruined,  he  was 
impatient  of  narratives  of  common  life,  whose  current 
bore  him  to  a  reservoir  and  no  sea  ;  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  some  tales  that  seemed  to  Helen  poverty-stricken 
fiats  of  nonsense,  or  jumbles  of  false  invention,  would 
in  her  brother  wake  an  interest  she  could  not  under- 
stand, appearing  to  aflford  him  outlooks  into  regions 
to  her  unknown.     But  from  the  moral  element  m  any 


240  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

story  he  shrank  visibly.  She  tried  the  German  tales 
collected  by  the  brothers  Grimm,  so  popular  with  chil- 
dren of  all  ages  ;  but  on  the  very  first  attempt  she  blun- 
dered into  an  awful  one  of  murder  and  vengeance,  in 
which,  if  the  drawing  was  untrue,  the  color  was  strong, 
and  had  to  blunder  clumsily  out  of  it  again,  with  a  hot 
face  and  a  cold  heart.  At  length  she  betook  herself  to 
the  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  which  she  had  never 
read,  and  found  very  dull,  but  which  with  Leopold 
served  for  what  book  could  do. 

In  the  rest  of  the  house  things  went  on  much  the 
same.  Old  friends  and  their  daughters  called  on  Mrs. 
Ramshorn  and  inquired  after  the  invalid,  and  George 
Bascombe  came  almost  every  Saturday,  and  stayed  till 
Monday.  But  the  moment  the  tide  of  her  trouble  be- 
gan again  to  rise,  Helen  found  herself  less  desirous  of 
meeting  one  from  whom  she  could  hope  neither  help  nor 
cheer.  It  might  be  ^  bit  future  generations  of  the  death- 
doomed  might  pass  their  poor  life  a  little  more  comfort- 
ably that  she  had  not  been  a  bad  woman,  and  she  might 
be  privileged  to  pass  away  from  the  world,  as  George 
taught  her,  without  earning  the  curses  of  those  that 
came  after  her  ;  but  there  was  her  precious  brother  ly- 
ing before  her  with  a  horrible  worm  gnawing  at  his 
heart,  and  what  to  her  were  a  thousand  generations  un- 
born !  Rather  with  Macbeth  she  might  well  "  wish  the 
estate  o'  Ihe  world  were  now  undone" — most  of  all 
when,  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night,  as  she  sat  by 
the  bedside  of  her  beloved  and  he  slept,  his  voice  would 


NURSING.  241 


come  murmuring  out  of  a  dream,  sounding  so  far  away 
that  it  seemed  as  if  his  spirit  onl}^  and  not  his  lips  had 
spoken  the  words,  "  O  Helen  !  darling,  give  me  my 
knife.     Why  will  you  not  let  me  die  ?" 


^ 

s^ 

)% 

U    ip )  A'' 

4     Ij 

^\^^ 

/  i^ 

^) 

CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

GLASTON  AND  THE  CURATE. 

UTSIDE,  the  sun  rose  and  set,  never  a  crim- 
son thread  the  less  in  the  garment  of  his 
glory  that  the  spirit  of  one  of  the  children 
of  the  earth  was  stained  with  blood-guilti- 
ness ;  the  moon  came  up  and  knew  nothing  of  the  mat- 
ter ;  the  stars  minded  their  own  business  ;  and  the  peo- 
ple of  Glaston  were  talking  about  their  curate's  ser- 
mons. Alas  !  it  was  about  his  sermons  and  not  the  sub- 
ject of  them  that  men  talked,  their  interest  mainly 
roused  by  their  peciiharity^  and  what  some  called  the 
oddity  of  the  preacher. 

What  had  come  to  him  ?  He  was  not  in  the  least  like 
that  for  months  after  his  appointment,  and  the  change 
came  all  at  once  !  Yes,  it  began  with  those  extrava- 
gant notions  about  honesty  in  writing  his  own  sermons  ! 
It  might  have  been  a  sunstroke,  but  it  took  him  far 
too  early  in  the  year  for  that  !  Softening  of  the  brain 
it  might  be,  poor  fellow  !  Was  not  excessive  vanity 
sometimes  a  symptom  ?     Poor  fellow  ! 


GLASTON   AND  THE   CURATE.  243 

So  said  some.  But  others  sai(^  he  was  a  clever  fellow, 
and  long-headed  enough  to  know  that  that  sort  of  thing 
attracted  attention,  and  might  open  the  way  to  a  bene- 
fice, or  at  least  an  engagement  in  London,  where  elo- 
quence was  of  more  account  than  in  a  dead-and-alive 
country  place  like  Glaston,  from  which  the  tide  of  grace 
had  ebbed,  leaving  that  great  ship  of  the  church,  the 
Abbey,  high  and  dry  on  the  shore. 

Others  again  judged  him  a  fanatic — a  dangerous  man. 
Such  did  not  all  venture  to  assert  that  he  had  erred 
from  the  way,  but  what  m*an  was  more  dangerous  than 
he  who  went  too  far  .^  Possibly  these  forgot  that  the 
narrow  way  can  hardly  be  one  to  sit  down  in  comforta- 
bly, or  indeed  to  be  entered  at  all  save  by  him  who  tries 
the  gate  with  the  intent  of  going  all  the  way — even 
should  it  lead  up  to  the  perfection  of  the  Father  in 
heaven.  "  But,"  they  would  in  effect  have  argued,  "  is 
not  a  fanatic  dangerous  ?  and  is  not  an  enthusiast  always 
in  peril  of  becoming  a  fanatic?  Be  his  enthusiasm  for 
what  it  may— for  Jesus  Christ,  for  God  himself— such 
a  man  is  dangerous,  most  dangerous  !  There  are  so 
many  things  comfortably  settled,  like  Presumption's 
tubs,  upon  their  own  bottoms,  which  such  men  would,  if 
they  could,  at  once  upset  and  empty  I" 

Others  suspected  a  Romanizing  drift  in  the  whole 
affair.  "  Wait  until  he  gathers  influence,"  they  said,  "  and 
a  handful  of  followers,  and  then  you'll  see  !  They'll  be 
all  back  to  Rome  together  in  a  month  !'' 

As  the  wind  took  by  the  tail  St.  Peter's  cock  on  the 
church-spire  and  whirled  it  about,  so  did  the  wind  of 


244-  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

words  in  Glaston  rudely  seize  and  flack  hither  and  thith- 
er the  spiritual  reputation  of  Thomas  Wingfold,  curate. 
And  all  the  time  the  young  man  was  wrestling,  his  life 
in  his  hand,  with  his  own  unbelief ;  while  upon  his  hori- 
zon ever  and  anon  rose  the  glimmer  of  a  great  aurora  or 
the  glimpse  of  a  boundless  main — if  only  he  could  have 
been  sure  they  were  no  mirage  of  his  own  parched  heart 
and  hungry  eye  ;  that  they  were  thoughts  in  the  mind 
of  the  Eternal,  and  therefore  had  appeared  in  his,  even 
as  the  Word  was  said  to  have  become  flesh  and  dwelt 
with  men  !  The  next  moment  he  would  be  gasping  in 
that  malarious  exhalation  from  the  marshes  of  his 
neglected  heart — the  counter-fear,  namely,  that  the  word 
under  whose  potent  radiance  the  world  seemed  on  the 
verge  of  budding  forth  and  blossoming  as  the  rose  was 
too  good  to  be  true. 

"  Yes,  much  too  good,  if  there  be  no  living,  self-wil- 
ling God,"  said  Polwarth  one  evening,  in  answer  to  the 
phrase  just  dropped  from  his  lips.  "But  if  there  be 
such  a  God  as  alone  could  be  God,  can  any  thing  be  too 
good  to  be  true — too  good  for  such  a  God  as  contented 
Jesus  Christ  ?  " 

At  one  moment  he  was  ready  to  believe  every  thing, 
even  to  that  strangest,  yet  to  me  right  credible,  miracle 
of  the  fish  and  the  piece  of  money,  and  the  next  to 
doubt  whether  man  had  ever  dared  utter  the  words,  "  I 
and  the  Father  are  one."  Tossed  he  was  and  tormented 
in  spirit,  calling  even  aloud  sometimes  to  know  if  there 
was  a  God  anywhere  hearing  his  prayer,  sure  only  of 
this,  that  whatever  else  any  being  might  be,  if  he  heard 


GLASTON    AND   THE  CURATE.  245 

not  prayer,  he  could  not  be  the  God  for  whom  his  soul 
cried  and  fainted.  Sometimes  there  came  to  him,  it  is 
true,  what  he  would  gladly  have  taken  for  an  answer, 
but  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  sudden  descent  of  a  kind 
of  calmness  on  his  spirit,  which,  for  aught  he  could  tell, 
might  be  but  the  calm  of  exhaustion.  His  knees  were 
sore  with  kneeling,  his  face  white  with  thinking,  his 
eye  dim  with  trouble  ;  for  when  once  a  man  has  set  out 
to  find  God,  he  must  find  him  or  die.  This  was  the  in- 
side reality  whose  outcome  set  the  public  of  Glaston 
babbling.  It  was  from  this  that  George  Bascombe  mag- 
isterially pronounced  him  a  hj^pochondriac,  worrying  his 
brain  about  things  that  had  no  existence — as  George 
himself  could  with  confidence  testify,  not  once  having 
seen  the  sight  of  them,  heard  the  sound  of  them,  or 
imagined  in  his  heart  that  they  ought  to  be,  or  even  that 
they  might  possibly  be.  He  pronounced,  indeed,  their 
existence  inconsistent  with  his  own.  The  thought  had 
never  rippled  the  gray  mass  of  his  self-satisfied  bram  that 
perhaps  there  was  more  of  himself  than  what  he  counted 
himself  yet  knew,  and  that  possibly  these  matters  had  a 
consistent  relation  with  parts  unknown.  Poor,  pover- 
ty-stricken Wingfold  !  actually  craving  for  things  be- 
neath Bascombe's  notice  !  actually  crying  for  something 
higher  and  brighter  than  the  moon  !  How  independ 
ent  was  George  compared  with  Thomas  !  content  to. 
live  what  he  called  his  life,  be  a  benefactor  to  men, 
chiefly  in  ridding  their  fancies  of  the  goblins  of  aspira- 
tion, then  die  his  death,  and  have  done  with  the  busiv 
ness  ;   while  poor,  misguided,  weak-brained,  hypochon- 


246  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

driacal  Thomas  could  be  contented  with  nothing  less  than 
the  fulfillment  of  the  promise  of  a  certain  man  who  per- 
haps never  existed  :  "  The  Father  and  I  will  come  to 
him  and  make  our  abode  with  him." 

Yet  Thomas,  too,  had  his  weakner,s  for  the  testimony  of 
the  senses.  If  he  did  not,  like  George,  refuse  to  believe 
without  it,  he  yet  could  not  help  desiring^signs  and  won- 
ders that  he  might  believe.  Of  this  the  following  poem 
was  a  result,  and  I  give  it  the  more  willingly  because  it 
will  show  how  the  intellectual  nature  of  the  man  had 
advanced,  borne  on  the  waves  that  burst  from  the 
fountains  of  the  great  deep  below  it : 

0  Lord  !  if  on  the  wind,  at  cool  of  day, 

I  heard  one  whispered  word  of  mighty  grace  ; 
If  through  the  darkness,  as  in  bed  I  lay. 
But  once  had  come  a  hand  upon  my  face  ; 

If  but  one  sign  that  might  not  be  mistook, 
Had  ever  been,  since  first  thy  face  I  sought, 

1  should  not  now  be  doubting  o'er  a  book. 

But  serving  thee  with  burning  heart  and  thought. 

So  dreams  that  heart.     But  to  my  heart  I  say. 
Turning  my  face  to  front  the  dark  and  wind  : 

Such  signs  had  only  barred  anew  His  way 

Into  thee,  longing  heart,  thee,  wildered  mind. 

They  asked  the  very  Way,  where  lies  the  way  ; 

The  very  Son,  where  is  the  Father's  face  ; 
How  he  could  show  himself,  if  not  in  clay, 

Who  was  the  Lord  of  spirit,  form,  and  space? 


GLASTON    AND  THE   CURATE.  247 


My  being,  Lord,  will  nevermore  be  whole 
Until  thou  come  behind  mine  ears  and  eyes, 

Enter  and  fill  the  temple  of  my  soul 
With  perfect  contact — such  a  sweet  surprise — 

Such  pressnce  as,  before  it  met  the  view, 
The  prophet-fancy  could  not  once  foresee. 

Though  every  corner  of  the  temple  knew 
By  very  emptiness  its  need  of  thee. 

When  I  keep  all  thy  words,  no  favored  some — 

Heedless  of  wordly  winds  or  judgment's  tide. 
Then,  Jesus,  thou  wilt  with  thy  Father  come — 

0  ended  prayers  ! — and  in  my  soul  abide. 

Ah  !  long  delay  !.  ah  !  cunning,  creeping  sin  ! 

1  shall  but  fail  and  cease  at  length  to  try: 
O  Jesus  !  though  thou  wilt  not  yet  come  in, 

Knock  at  my  window  as  thou  passest  by. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THE    LINEN-DRAPER. 

UT  there  was  yet  another  class  among  those 
who  on  that  second  day  heard  the    curate 
testify  what  honestly  he  might,  and  no  more, 
concerning  Jesus  of  Nazareth.     So  far  as  he 
learned,  however,  that  class  consisted  of  one  individual. 

On  the  following  Tuesday  morning  he  went  into  the 
shop  of  the  chief  linen-draper  of  Glaston,  for  he  was 
going  to  a  funeral,  and  wanted  a  new  pair  of  gloves  that 
he  might  declme  those  which  would  be  offered  to  him. 
A  young  woman  waited  on  him,  but  Mr.  Drew,  seeing 
him  from  the  other  end  of  the  shop,  came  and  took  her 
place.  When  he  was  fitted,  had  paid  for  his  purchase 
and  was  turning  to  take  his  leave,  the  draper,  with  what 
appeared  a  resolution  suddenly  forced  from  hesitation, 
leaned  over  the  counter  and  said. 

"  Would  you  mind  walking  up  stairs  for  a  few  minutes, 
sir?  I  ask  it  as  a  great  favor.  T  want  very  much  to 
speak  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  answered  Wingfold— con- 
ventionally, it  must  be  allowed,  for  in  reality  he  antici- 


THE    LINEN-DRAPER.  249 

pated  expostulation,  and  having  in  his  public  ministra- 
tions to  do  his  duty  against  his  own  grain,  he  had  no 
fancy  for  encountering  other  people's  grain  as  well  in 
private.  Mr.  Drew  opened  certain  straits  in  the  coun- 
ter, and  the  curate  followed  him  through  them,  then 
through  a  door,  up  a  stair,  and  into  a  comfortable  din- 
ing-room, which  smelt  strongly  of  tobacco.  There  Mr. 
Drew  placed  for  him  a  chair,  and  seated  himself  in  front 
of  him. 

The  linen-draper  was  a  middle-aged,  middle-sized, 
stoutish  man,  with  plump,  rosy  cheeks,  keen  black  eyes, 
and  features  of  the  not  uncommon  pug-type,  ennobled 
and  harmonized  by  a  genuine  expression  of  kindly  good- 
humor,  and  an  excellent  forehead.  His  dark  hair  was  a 
little  streaked  with  gray.  His  manner,  which  in  the  shop 
had  been  of  the  shop — that  is,  more  deferential  and 
would-be  pleasing  than  Wingfold  liked— settled,  as 
he  took  his  seat,  into  one  more  resembling  that  of  a 
country  gentleman.  It  was  courteous  and  friendly,  but 
clouded  with  a  little  anxiety. 

An  uncomfortable  pause  following, Wingfold  stumbled 
in  with  the  question,  "  I  hope  Mrs.  Drew  is  well,"  with- 
out reflecting  whether  he  had  really  ever  heard  of  a 
Mrs.  Drew. 

The  draper's  face  flushed. 

"  It's  twenty  years  since  I  lost  her,  sir,"  he  returned. 
In  his  tone  and  manner  there  was  something  peculiar. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Wingfold,  with  self-accus' 
ing  sincerity. 

"  I  will  be  open  with  you  sir,"  continued  his  host ; 


250  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"she  left  me — with  another — nearly  twenty  5^ears  ago." 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  my  inadvertence,"  rejoined  Wing- 
fold.     **  I  have  been  such  a  short  time  here,  and — " 

"  Do  not  mention  it,  sir.  How  could  you  help  it  } 
Besides,  it  was  not  here  the  thing  took  place,  but  a  hun- 
dred miles  away.  I  hope  I  should  before  long  have 
referred  to  the  fact  myself.  But  now  I  desire,  if  you  will 
allow  me,  to  speak  of  something  different.'^ 

"  I  am  at  your  service,"  answered  Wingfold. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  was  in  your  church  last  Sunday," 
resumed  the  draper,  after  a  pause.  "  I  am  not  one  of  your 
regular  hearers,  sir;  but  your  sermon  that  day  set  me 
thinking,  and  instead  of  thinking  less  when  Monday 
came,  I  have  been  thinking  more  and  more  ever  since  ; 
and  when  I  saw  you  in  the  shop.  I  could  not  resist  the 
sudden  desire  to  speak  to  you.  If  you  have  time,  sir,  I 
hope  you  will  allow  me  to  come  to  the  point  my  own 
way  ?" 

Wingfold  assured  him  that  his  time  was  at  his  own 
disposal,  and  could  not  be  better  occupied.  Mr.  Drew 
thanked  him,  and  went  on. 

"Your  sermon,  I  must  confess,  sir,  made  me  uncom- 
fortable—no fault  of  yours,  sir;  all  my  own;  though 
how  much  the  fault  is  I  hardly  know  :  use  and  custom 
are  hard  upon  a  man,  sir,  and  you  would  have  a  man  go 
by  other  laws  than  those  of  the  world  he  lives  in.  'The 
earth  is  the  Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof,'  5^ou  will 
doubtless  say.  That  is  over  the  Royal  Exchange  in 
London,  1  think  ;  but  it  is  not  the  laws  of  the  Lord  that 
are  specially  followed  inside,  for  all  that.     However,  it 


THE    LINEN-DRAPER.  25I 

is  not  with  other  people  we  have  to  do,  but  with  our- 
selves— as  )'0u  will  say.  Well,  then,  it  is  for  myself  I  am 
troubled  nov;.  Mr.  Wingfold,  sir,  I  am  not  altogether 
at  ease  in  my  own  mind  as  to  the  way  I  have  made  my  mo- 
ney— what  little  monc)'  I  have — no  great  sum,  but 
enough  to  retire  upon  when  I  please.  I  would  not  have 
you  think  me  worse  than  1  am,  but  I  am  sincerely  de- 
sirous of  knowing  what  you  would  have  me  do." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  returned  Wingfold,  "  I  am  the  very 
last  to  look  to  for  enlightenment.  I  am  as  ignorant  of 
business  as  any  child.  I  am  not  aware  that  I  ever 
bought  any  thing  except  books  and  clothes,  or  ever  sold 
any  thing  except  a  knife  to  a  schoolfellow — I  had 
bought  it  the  day  before  for  half  a  crown,  but  there  was 
a  spot  of  rust  on  one  of  the  blades,  and  therefore  I  part- 
ed with  it  for  twopence.  The  only  thing  I  can  say  is, 
if  you  have  been  in  the  way  of  doing  any  thing  you  are 
no  longer  satisfied  with,  don't  do  it  any  more." 

"  But  just  there  comes  my  need  of  help.  You  must 
do  something  with  your  business,  and  dont  do  it  don't 
tell  me  what  to  do.  Mind,  I  do  not  confess  to  having 
done  any  thing  the  trade  would  count  inadmissible,  or 
which  is  not  done  in  the  largest  establishments.  What 
I  now  make  question  of  I  learned  in  one  of  the  most  re- 
spectable of  London  houses." 

"  You  imply  that  a  man  in  5'-our  line  who  would  not 
do  certain  thinra  the  doing  of  which  has  contributed 
to  the  making  of  your  fortune,  would  by  the  ordinary 
dealer  be  regarded  as  Quixotic  .^" 

"  He  would  ;  but  that  there  mav  be   such  men  I  am 


252  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


bound  to  allow,  for  here  am  I  wishing  with  all  my  heart 
that  I  had  never  done  them.  Right  gladly  would  I  give 
up  the  money  I  have  made  by  them  to  be  rid  of  them. 
I  am  unhappy  about  it.  But  I  should  never  have  dared 
to  confess  it  to  you,  sir,  or,  I  believe,  to  any  one,  but 
for  the  confession  you  made  in  the  pulpit  some  time 
ago.  I  was  not  there,  but  I  heard  of  it.  I  foolishly 
judged  you  unwise  to  accuse  yourself  before  an  unsym- 
pathizing  public — but  here  I  am  in  consequence  accus- 
ing myself  to  you  I  " 

"  To  no  unsympathizing  hearer,  though,"  said  the  cu- 
rate. 

"  It  made  me  want  to  go  and  hear  you  preach,"  pur- 
sued the  draper ;  "  for  no  one  could  say  but  it  was 
pluck)'^ — and  we  all  like  pluck,  sir,"  he  added,  with  a 
laugh  that  puckered  his  face,  showed  the  whitest  of 
teeth,  and  swept  every  sign  of  trouble  from  the  half- 
globe  of  his  radiant  countenance. 

"  Then  you  know  sum  and  substance  of  what  I  can  do 
for  you,  Mr.  Drew  :  I  can  sympathize  with  you  ;  not  a 
whit  more  or  less  am  I  capable  of.  I  am  the  merest  be- 
ginner and  dabbler  in  doing  right  myself,  and  have  more 
need  to  ask  you  to  teach  me  than  to  set  up  for  teaching 
you," 

"That's  the  beauty  of  you  ! — excuse  me,  sir,"  cried 
the  draper  triumphantly.  "  You  don't  pretend  to  teach 
us  any  thing,  but  you  make  us  so  uncomfortable  that  we 
go  about  ever  after  asking  ourselves  what  we  ought  to 
do.  Till  last  Sunday  I  had  always  looked  upon  myself 
as  an  honest  man  ;  let  me  see,  it  would  be  more  cor- 


THE    LINEN-DRAPER.  253 

rect  to   say    I    looked  on  myself  as  a  man  quite  honest 
enough.  ^  That  I  do  not  feel  so  now  is  your  doing,  sir. 
You  said  in  your  sermon   last  Sunday,  and  specially  to 
business    men,    '  Do  you  do  to  your  neighbor  as  you 
would  have  your  neighbor  do  to  you  ?     If  not,  how  can 
you  suppose  that  the  Lord  of  Christians  will  acknowl- 
edge you  as  a  disciple  of  his,  that  is,  as  a  Christian  ?  ' 
Now,  I  was  even  surer  of  being  a  Christian  than  of  being 
an  honest  man.     You  will  hardly  believe  it.  and  what  to 
think  of  it  myself  I  hardly  know,  but  I  had  satisfied  my- 
self, more  or  less,  that  I  had  gone  through  all  the  nec- 
essary stages  of  being  born   again,  and  it  is  now  many 
years  since  I  was  received  into  a  Christian  church— dis- 
senting, of  course,  I  mean  ;  for  what  I  count  the  most 
important  difference  after  all  between  church  and  dis- 
sent is  that  the  one,  right  or  wrong,  requires  for  com- 
munion  a  personal   profession    of   faith    and   credible 
proof  of  conversion — which  I  believed  I  gave  them,  and 
have  been  for  years,  I  shame  to  say  it,  one  of  the  dea- 
cons of  that  community.     But  it  shall  not  be  for  long. 
To  return  to  my  story,  however  :  1  was  indignant  at  be- 
ing called  upon  from  a  church-pulpit  to  raise  in  myself 
the  question  whether  or  not  I  was  a  Christian  ;  for  had 
not  I  put  my  faith  in  the  ?     Bat  I  will  avoid  the- 
ology, for  I  have  paid  more   regard  to  that  than  has 
proved  good  for  me.     Suffice  it  to  say  that  I  was  now 
driven  from  the  tests  of  the  theologians  to  try  myself 
by  the  words  of  the  Master — he  must  be  the  best  theol- 
ogian after  all,  mustn't  he,  sir? — and  so  there  and  then  I 
tried  the  test  of  doing  to  your  neighbor  a^.     But  I  could 


254  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

not  get  it  to  work  ;  I  could  not  see  how  to  use  it,  and 
while  I  was  trying  how  to  make  it  apply  you  were  gone, 
and  I  lost  all  the  rest  of  the  sermon. 

"  Now,  whether  it  was  any  thing  you  had  said  coming 
back  to  me  I  can  not  tell,  but  next  day,  that  was  yester- 
day, all  at  once,  in  the  shop  here,  as  I  was  serving  Mrs. 
Ramshorn,  the  thought  came  to  me.  How  would  Jesus 
Christ  have  done  if  he  had  been  a  draper  instead  of  a 
carpenter  ?  When  she  was  gone,  I  went  up  to  my  room 
to  think  about  it.  And  there  it  seemed  that  first  I 
must  know  how  he  did  as  a  carpenter.  But  that  we  are 
told  nothing  about.  I  could  get  no  light  upon  that. 
And  so- my  thoughts  turned  again  to  the  original  ques- 
tion. How  would  he  have  done  had  he  been  a  draper? 
And,  strange  to  say,  I  seemed  to  know  far  more  about 
that  than  the  other,  and  to  have  something  to  go  upon. 
In  fact,  I  had  a  sharp  and  decisive  answer  concerning 
several  things  of  which  I  had  dared  to  make  a  question." 

"  The  vision  of  the  ideal  woke  the  ideal  in  yourself," 
said  Wingfold  thoughtfully. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  quite  understand  that,"  returned 
Mr.  Drew  ;  "  but  the  more  I  thought  the  more  dissatis- 
fied I  became.  And,  in  a  word,  it  has  come  to  this,  that 
I  must  set  things  right  or  give  up  business." 

"  That  would  be  no  victory,"  remarked  the  curate. 
^  "  I  know  it,  and  shall  not  yield  ^vithout  a  struggle,  [ 
promise  you.  That  same  afternoon,  taking  the  oppor- 
tunity of  having  overheard  one  of  them  endeavoring  to 
persuade  an  old  farmer's  wife  to  her  disadvantage,  I 
called  all  my  people,  and  told  them  that  if  ever  I  heard 


THE    LINEN-DRAPER.  255 


one  of  them  do  such  a  thing,  I  would  turn  him  or  her 
away  at  once.  But  when  I  came  to  look  at  ii,  I  saw  how 
difficult  it  would  be  to  convict  of  the  breach  of  such  a 
vague  law ;  and  unfortunately,  too,  I  had  some  time  ago 
introduced  the  system  of  a  small  percentage  to  the  sell- 
ers, making  it  their  interest  to  force  sales.  That,  now- 
ever,  is  easily  rectified,  and  I  shall  see  to  it  at  once.  But 
I  do  wish  I  had  a  more  definite  law  to  follow  than  that 
of  doing  as  /" 

"  Would  not  more  light  inside  do  as  well  as  clearer 
law  outside  ?"  suggested  Wingfold. 

"  How  can  I  tell  till  I  have  had  a  chance  of  trying  ?" 
returned  the  draper  with  a  smile,  which  speedily  vanished 
as  he  went  on  :  "  Then,  again,  there's  all  about  profits  ! 
How  much  ought  I  to  take  ?  Am  I  to  do  as  others 
do,  and  always  be  ruled  by  the  market  ?  Am  I  bound  to 
give  my  customers  the  advantage  of  any  special  bar- 
gain I  may  have  made  ?  And  then  again — for  I  do  a 
large  wholesale  business  with  the  little  country  shops — 
if  I  learn  that  one  of  my  customers  is  going  down-hill, 
have  I  or  have  I  not  a  right  to  pounce  upon  him  and 
make  him  pay  me,  to  the  detriment  of  his  other  cred- 
itors ?    There's  no  end  of  questions,  you  see,  sir." 

"  I  am  the  worst  possible  man  to  ask,"  returned 
Wingfold,  again.  "  I  might,  from  very  ignorance,  judge 
that  wrong  which  is  really  right,  or  that  right  which  is 
really  wrong.  But  one  thing  I  begin  to  see,  that  before 
a  man  can  do  right  by  his  neighbor,  he  must  love  him 
as  himself.  Only  I  am  such  a  poor  scholar  in  these  high 
things  that,  as  you  have  just  said,  I  can  not  pretend  to 


256  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

teach  any  body.  That  sermon  was  but  an  appeal  to 
men's  own  consciences  whether  they  kept  the  words  of 
the  Lord  by  whose  name  they  called  themselves.  Ex- 
cept in  your  case,  Mr.  Drew,  I  am  not  aware  that  one  of 
the  congregation  has  taken  it  to  heart." 

"  I  am  not  sure  of  that,"  returned  the  draper.  "  Some 
talk  among  my  own  people  has  made  me  fancy  that, 
perhaps,  though  talk  be  but  froth,  the  froth  may  rise 
from  some  hot  work  down  below.  Never  man  could 
tell  from  the  quiet  way  I  am  talking  to  you  how  much 
I  have  felt  in  these  few  days  past." 

Wingfold  looked  him  in  the  face :  the  earnestness  of 
the  man  was  plain  in  his  ej^es,  and  his  resolve  stamped 
on  every  feature.  The  curate  thought  of  Zacchseus  ; 
thought  of  Matthew  at  the  receipt  of  custom  ;  thought 
with  some  shame  of  certain  judgments  concerning  trade, 
and  shopkeepers  especially,  that  seemed  somehow  to 
have  bred  in  him  like  creeping  things  ;  for  whence  they 
had  come  he  could  not  tell. 

Now  it  was  clear  as  day  that — always  provided  the 
man  Christ  Jesus  can  be  and  is  with  his  disciples  always 
to  the  end  of  the  world — a  tradesman  might  just  as  soon 
have  Jesus  behind  the  counter  with  him,  teaching  him 
to  buy  and  sell  in  his  name,  that  is,  as  he  would  have 
done  it  as  an  earl  riding  over  his  lands  might  have  him 
with  him,  teaching  him  how  to  treat  his  farmers  and 
cottagers — all  depending  on  how  the  one  did  his  trading 
and  the  other  his  earling.  A  mere  truism,  is  it  .^  Yes, 
it  is,  and  more  is  the  pity  ;  for  what  is  a  truism,  as  most 
men  count  truisms  }    What  is  it  but  a  truth  that  ought  to 


THE   LINEN-DRAPER.  257 

have  been  buried  long  ago  in  the  lives  of  men — to  send 
up  forever  the  corn  of  true  deeds  and  the  wine  of  lov- 
ing-kindness— but,  instead  of  being  buried  in  friendly 
soil,  is  allowed  to  lie  about,  kicked  hither  and  thither 
in  the  dry  and  empty  garret  of  their  brains,  till  they  are 
sick  of  the  sight  and  sound  of  it,  and,  to  be  rid  of  the 
thought  of  it,  declare  it  to  be  no  living  truth  but  only  a 
lifeless  truism  !  Yet  in  their  brain  that  truism  must 
rattle  until  they  shift  it  to  its  rightful  quarters  in  their 
heart,  where  it  will  rattle  no  longer  but  take  root  and  be 
a  strength  and  loveliness.  Is  a  truth  to  cease  to  be  ut^. 
tered  because  no  better  form  than  that  of  some  divine 
truism — say  of  St.  John  Boanerges — can  be  found  for 
it  ?  To  the  critic  the  truism  is  a  sea-worn,  foot-trodden 
pebble  ;  to  the  obedient  scholar,  a  radiant  topaz,  which^ 
as  he  polishes  it  with  the  dust  of  its  use,  may  turn  into 
a  diamond. 

"  Jesus  buying  and  selling  !"  said  Wingfold  to  himself. 
"  And  why  not  ?  Did  Jesus  make  chairs  and  tables,  or 
boats  perhaps,  which  the  people  of  Nazareth  wanted, 
without  any  admixture  of  trade  in  the  matter.?  Was 
there  no  transaction  ?  No  passing  of  money  between 
hands  ?  Did  they  not  pay  his  father  for  them  }  Was 
his  Father's  way  of  keeping  things  going  in  the  world 
too  vile  for  the  hands  of  him  whose  being  was  delight 
in  the  will  of  that  Father?  Nd  ;  there  must  be  a  way 
of  handling  money  that  is  noble  as  the  handling  of  the 
sword  in  the  hands  of  the  patriot.  Neither  the  mean 
man  who  loves  it  nor  the   faithless  man  who  despises 


258  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

it  knows  how  to  handle  it.  The  former  is  one  who  al- 
lows his  dog  to  become  a  nuisance,  the  latter  one  who 
kicks  him  from  his  sight.  The  noble  man  is  he  who  so 
truly  does  the  work  given  him  to  do  that  the  inherent 
nobility  of  that  work  is  manifest.  And  the  trader  who 
trades  nobly  is  nobler  surely  than  the  high-born  who, 
if  he  carried  the  principles  of  his  daily  life  into  trade, 
would  be  as  pitiful  a  sneak  as  any  he  that  bows  and 
scrapes  falsely  behind  that  altar  of  lies,  his  counter."-- 
All  fiat  truisms  I  know,  but  no  longer  such  to  Wingfold, 
to  whom  they  now  for  the  first  time  showed  themselves 
truths. 

He  had  taken  a  kindly  leave  of  the  draper,  promising 
to  call  again  soon,  and  had  reached  the  room-door  on 
his  way  out,  when  he  turned  suddenly  and  said, 

"Did  you  think  to  try  praying,  Mr.  Drew?  Men 
whose  minds,  if  I  may  venture  to  judge,  seem  to  me, 
from  their  writings,  of  the  very  highest  order,  have 
really  and  positively  believed  that  the  loftiest  activity 
of  a  man's  being  lay  in  prayer  to  the  unknown  Fathet 
of  that  being,  and  that  light  in  the  inward  parts  was 
the  certain  consequence  ;  that,  in  very  truth,  not  only 
did  the  prayer  of  the  man  find  the  ear  of  God,  but  the 
man  himself  found  God  himself.  I  have  no  right  to  an 
opinion,  but  I  have  a  splendid  hope  that  I  shall  one  day 
find  it  true.  The  Lord  said  a  man  must  go  on  praying 
and  not  lose  heart." 

With  the  words  he  walked  out,  and  the  deacon 
thought  of  his  many  prayers  at  prayer-meetings  and  fam- 


THE    LINEN-DRAPER.  259 

ily  worships.  The  words  of  a  young  man  who  seemed 
to  have  only  just  discovered  that  there  was  such  a 
thing  as  prayer,  who  could  not  pretend  to  be  sure 
about  it,  but  hoped  splendidly,  made  him  ashamed  of 
them  all. 


CHAPTER   XL. 


RACHEL. 


INGFOLD   went   straight  to  his  friend  Pol- 
warth,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  allow  him 
to  bring  Mr.  Drew  some  evening  to  tea. 
"  You  mean  the  linen-draper  .''"  asked  Pol- 
warth.     "  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Some  troubles  are  catching,"  said  the  curate. 
"  Drew  has  cauglvt  my  disease." 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.  It  would  be  hard  to  catch 
a  better,  and  it's  one  a  rich  man,  as  they  say  he  is,  sel 
dom  does  catch.  But  I  always  liked  his  round,  good- 
humored,  honest  face.  If  I  remember  rightly,  he  had 
a  sore  trial  in  his  wife.  It  is  generally  understood  that 
she  ran  away  with  some  fellow  or  other.  But  that  was 
before  he  came  to  live  in  Glaston. — Would  you  mind 
looking  in  upon  Rachel  for  a  few  minutes,  sir?  She  is 
not  so  well  to-day,  and  has  not  been  out  of  her  own 
room." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  answered  Wingfold.  "I  am 
sorry  to  hear  she  is  suffering." 


RACHEL.  26] 


"  She  is  always  suffering  more  or  less,"  said  the  Httle 

man.     "  But  she  enjoys  life,   notwithstanding,  as  you 

*  may  clearly  see.     It  is  to  her  only  a  mitigated  good,  and 

that,  I  trust,  for  the  sake  of  an  unmitigated  one. — Come 

this  way,  sir." 

He  led  the  curate  to  the  room  next  his  own. 

It  also  was  a  humble  little  garret,  but  dainty  wich 
whiteness.  One  who  did  not  thoroughly  know  her 
might  have  said  it  was  like  her  life,  colorless,  but  bright 
with  innocence  and  peace.  The  walls  were  white  ;  the 
boards  of  the  uncarpeted  floor  were  as  white  as  scrub- 
bing could  make  old  deal  ;  the  curtains  of  windows 
and  bed  were  whiteness  itself  ;  the  coverlid  was  white  ; 
so  was  the  face  that  looked  smiling  over  the  top  of  it 
from  the  one  low  white  pillow.  But  although  Wingfold 
knew  that  face  so  well,  he  was  almost  startled  at  the 
sight  of  it  now  :  in  the  patience  of  its  suffering  it  was 
positively  lovely.  All  that  was  painful  to  see  was  hid- 
den ;  the  crooked  little  body  lay  at  rest  in  the  grave  of 
the  bedclothes  ;  the  soul  rose  from  it,  and  looked,  gra- 
cious with  womanhood,  in  the  eyes  of  the  curate. 

"  I  can  not  give  you  my  hand,"  she  said,  smiling,  as  he 
went  softly  towards  her,  feeling  like  Moses  when  he  put 
off  his  shoes,  "  for  I  have  such  a  pain  in  my  arm,  I  can 
'  not  well  raise  it." 

I  The  curate  bowed  reverentially,  seated  himself  in  a 
chair  by  her  bedside,  and,  like  a  true  comforter,  said 
nothing. 

"  Don't  be  sorry  for  me,  Mr.  Wingfold,"  said  her 
sweet  voice  at  length.     "  The  poor  dwarfie,  as  the  chil- 


262  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

dren  call  mc,  is  not  a  creature  to  be  pitied.  You  don't 
know  how  happy  I  am  as  I  lie  here,  knowing  my  uncle 
is  in  the  next  room,  and  will  come  the  moment  I  call 
him — and  that  there  is  one  nearer  still,"  she  added  in  a 
lower  voice,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "  whom  I  haven't  even 
to  call.  I  am  his,  and  he  shall  do  with  me  just  as  he 
likes.  I  fancy  sometimes,  when  I  have  to  lie  still,  that 
I  am  a  little  sheep,  tied  hands  and  feet — I  should  have 
said  all  four  feet,  if  I  am  a  sheep" — and  here  she  gave  a 
little  merry  laugh — "  lying  on  an  altar — the  bed  here — 
burning  away  in  the  flame  of  life  that  consumes  the 
deathful  body — burning,  heart  and  soul  and  sense,  up  to 
the  great  Father. — Forgive  me,  Mr.  Wingfold,  for  talking 
about  myself,  but  you  looked  so  miserable  !  and  I  knew 
it  was  your  kind  heart  feeling  for  me.  But  I  need  not, 
for  that,  have  gone  on  at  such  a  rate.  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself  !" 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  exceedingly  obliged  to  you 
for  honoring  me  by  talking  so  freely,"  said  Wingfold. 
"  It  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  find  that  suffering  is  not 
necessarily  unhappiness.  I  could  be  well  content  to 
suffer  also,  Miss  Polwarth,  if  with  the  suffering  I  might 
have  the  same  peace." 

"  Sometimes  I  am  troubled,"  she  answered  ;  "  but 
generally  I  am  in  peace,  and  sometimes  too  happy  to  dare 
speak  about  it.  Would  the  persons  you  and  my  uncle 
were  talking  about  the  other  day— would  they  say  all 
my  pleasant  as  well  as  my  painful  thoughts  came  from 
the  same  cause— vibrations  in  my  brain  ?" 

"  No  doubt.     Tlicy  would  say,   I  presume,  that   the 


RACHEL.  263 


pleasant  thoughts  come  from  regular,  and  the  unpleasant 
from  irregular,  motions  of  its  particles.  They  must 
give  the  same  origin  to  both.  Would  you  be  willing 
to  acknowledge  that  only  your  pleasant  thoughts  had 
a  higher  origin,  and  that  your  painful  ones  came  from 
physical  sources  ?" 

Because  of  a  headache  and  depression  of  spirits, 
Wingfold  had  been  turning  over  similar  questions  in  his 
own  mind  the  night  before. 

"  I  see,"  said  the  dwarfie,  "  I  see.  No.  There  are  sad 
thoughts  sometimes  which  in  their  season  I  would  not 
lose,  for  I  would  have  their  influences  with  me  always. 
In  their  season  they  are  better  than  a  host  of  happy 
ones,  and  there  is  joy  at  the  root  of  all.  But  if  they  did 
come  from  physical  causes,  would  it  follow  that  they 
did  not  come  from  God  ?  Is  he  not  the  God  of  the  dying 
as  well  as  the  God  of  the  living .?" 

"  If  there  be  a  God,  Miss  Polwarth,"  returned  Wing- 
fold  eagerly,  "then  is  he  God  everywhere,  and  not  a 
maggot  can  die  any  more  than  a  Shakespeare  be 
born  without  him.  Ke  is  either  enough,  that  is,  all  in 
all,  or  he  is  not  at  all." 

"  That  is  what  I  think,  because  it  is  best.  I  can  give 
no  better  reason." 

"  If  there  be  a  God,  there  can  be  no  better  reason," 
said  Wingfold. 

This  if  of  Wingfold's  was,  I  need  hardly  now  say,  an 
//of  bare  honesty,  and  came  of  no  desire  to  shake  an 
unthinking  confidence.  Neither,  had  it  been  of  the 
other  soil,  could  it  have  shaken  Rachel's,  for  her  confi- 


u 


264  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

dence  was  full  of  thinking.  As  little  could  it  shock 
her,  for  she  hardly  missed  a  sentence  that  passed  be- 
tween her  uncle  and  his  new  friend.  She  made  no  re- 
ply, never  imagining  it  her  business  to  combat  the 
doubts  of  a  man  whom  she  knew  to  be  eager  after  the 
truth,  and  being  guiltless  -f  any  tendency,  because  she 
believed,  to  condemn  doubt  as  wicked. 

A  short  silence  followed. 

"  How  delightful  it  must  be  to  feel  well  and  strong  !" 
said  Rachel  at  length.  "  I  can't  help  often  thinking  of 
Miss  Lingard.  It's  always  Miss  Lingard  comes  up  to 
me  when  I  think  of  such  things  !  Oh  !  ain't  she  beau- 
tiful and  strong,  Mr.  Wingfold  ? — and  sits  on  her  horse 
as  straight  as  a  rush  !  It  does  one  good  to  see  her. 
Just  fancy  me  on  a  great  tall  horse  !  What  a  bag  of 
potatoes  I  should  look  !" 

She  burst  into  a  merry  laugh,  and  then  came  a  few 
tears,  which  were  not  all  of  the  merriment  of  which  she 
let  them  pass  as  the  consequence,  remarking,  as  she 
wiped  them  away, 

"  But  no  one  can  tell,  Mr.  Wingfold — and  I'm  sure 
Miss  Lingard  would  be  astonished  to  hear — what  pleasure 
I  have  while  lying  unable  to  move.  I  suppose  I  benefit 
by  what  people  call  the  law  of  compensation  !  How  I 
hate  the  word  !  As  if  t/iat  was  the  way  the  Father  of 
Jesus  Christ  did,  and  not  his  very  best,  to  get  his  chil- 
dren, elder  brothers  and  prodigal  sons,  home  to  his 
heart ! — You  heard  what  my  uncle  said  about  dreams 
the  other  day  ?"  she  resumed  after  a  little  pause. 


RACHEL.  26; 


"  Yes.  I  thought  it  YQry  sensible,"  replied  the  cu- 
rate. 

"It  all  depends  on  the  sort,  don't  it  .^"  said  Rachel. 
"  Some  of  mine  I  would  not  give  for  a  library.  They 
make  me  grow,  telling  me  things  I  should  never  learn 
Otherwise.  I  don't  mean  any  rubbish  about  future 
events,  and  such  like.  Of  all  useless  things  a  know- 
ledge of  the  future  seems  to  me  the  most  useless,  for 
what  are  you  to  do  with  a  thing  before  it  exists  }  Such 
a  knowledge  could  only  bewilder  you  as  to  the  right  way 
to  take — would  make  you  see  double  instead  of  single. 
That's  not  the  sort  I  mean  at  all.  You  won't  laugh  at 
me,  Mr.  Wingfold?" 

"  I  can  scarcely  imagine  any  thing  less  likely." 

"  Then  I  don't  mind  opening  my  toy-box  to  you.  In 
my  dreams,  for  instance,  I  am  sometimes  visited  by 
such  a  sense  of  freedom  as  fills  me  with  a  pure  bliss  un- 
known to  my  waking  thoughts  except  as  a  rosy  cloud 
on  the  horizon.  As  if  they  were  some  heavenly  corpo- 
ration, my  dreams  present  me,  not  with  the  freedom  of 
some  poor  little  city  like  London,  but  with  the  freedom 
of  all  space." 

The  curate  sat  and  listened  with  wonder,  but  with  no 
sense  of  unfitness  :  such  speech  and  such  thought  suit- 
ed well  with  the  face  that  looked  up  from  the  low  pil- 
low with  its  lovely  eyes ;  for  lovely  they  were  with  a 
light  that  had  both  flash  and  force. 

"  I  don't  believe,"  she  went  on,"  that  even  Miss  Lingard 
has  more  of  the  blessed  sense  of  freedom  and  strength 
and  motion  when  she  is  on  horseback  than  I  have  when 


266  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

I  am  asleep.  The  very  winds  of  my  dreams  will  make 
me  so  unspeakably  happy  that  I  wake  weeping.  Do 
not  tell  me  it  is  gone  then,  for  I  continue  so  happy  that 
I  can  hardly  get  to  sleep  again  to  hunt  for  more  joy. 
Don't  say  it  is  an  unreality — for  where  does  freedom 
lie  ?  In  the  body  or  in  the  mind  ?  What  does  it  matter 
whether  my  body  be  lying  still  or  moving  from  one  spot 
of  space  to  another  ?  What  is  the  good  of  motion  but 
to  produce  the  feeling  of  freedom  ?  The  feeling  is 
everything  ;  and  if  I  have  it,  that  is  all  that  I  want.  Bodily 
motion  would  indeed  disturb  it  for  me — lay  fetters  on 
my  spirit. — Sometimes,  again,  I  dream  of  a  new  flower — • 
one  never  before  beheld  by  mortal  eye — with  some 
strange,  wonderful  quality  in  it,  perhaps,  that  rnakes  it 
a  treasure,  like  that  flower  of  Milton's  invention — hae- 
mony — in  Comus,  you  know.  But  one  curious  thing  is 
that  that  strange  quality  will  never  be  recalled  in  waking 
hours  ;  so  that  what  it  was  I  can  never  tell — as  if  it  be- 
longed to  other  regions  than  the  life  of  this  world — I 
retain  only  the  vaguest  memory  of  its  power  and  mar- 
vel and  preciousness. — Sometimes  it  is  a  little  poem  or 
a  song  I  dream  of,  or  some  strange  musical  instrument, 
perhaps  like  one  of  those  I  have  seen  angels  with  in  a 
photograph  from  an  old  picture.  And  somehow  with 
the  instrument  always  comes  the  knowledge  of  how  to 
^  play  upon  it.  So  you  see,  sir,  as  it  has  pleased  God  to 
send  me  into  the  world  as  crooked  as  a  crab,  and  nearly 
as  lame  as  a  seal,  it  has  pleased  him  also  to  give  me  the 
health  and  the  riches  of  the  night  to  strengthen  me  for 
the  pains  and  poverties  of  the  day. — You  rejoice  in  a 


RACHEL.  267 


beautiful  thought  when  it  comes  to  you,  Mr.  Wingfold, 
do  you  not.^" 

"When  it  comes  to  me,"  ansvvered  Wingfold  signifi- 
cantly, almost  petulantly.  Could  it  be  that  he  envied 
the  dwarf-girl.? 

"  Then  is  the  thought  any  worse  because  it  comes  in  a 
shape  ?  or  is  the  feeling  less  of  a  feeling  that  it  is  born 
in  a  dream  ?" 

"  I  need  no  convincing.  I  admit  all  you  say,"  re- 
turned Wingfold. 

"  Why  are  you  so  silent,  then  ?  You  make  me  think 
you  are  objecting  inside  to  everything  I  am  saying," 
rejoined  Rachel  with  a  smile. 

"  Partly  because  I  fear  you  are  exciting  yourself  too 
much  and  will  suffer  in  consequence,"  answered  the  cu- 
rate, who  had  noted  the  rosy  flush  on  her  face. 

The  same  moment  her  uncle  re-entered  the  room. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  convince  Mr.  Wingfold  that 
there  may  be  some  good  in  dreaming,  uncle,"  she  said. 

"  Successfully  ?"  asked  Polwarth. 

"  Unnecessarily,"  interjected  Wingfold.  "  I  required 
for  conviction  only  the  facts.  Why  should  I  suppose 
that,  if  there  be  a  God,  he  is  driven  out  of  us  by  sleep  ?" 

"  It  is  an  awful  thing,"  said  Polwarth,  "  to  think  that 

f  this  feeble  individuality  of  ours,  the  offspring  of  God's 

individuality,  should  have  some  power,  and  even  more 

will  than  power,  to  close  its  door  against  him,  and  keep 

house  v/ithout  him  !" 

"  But  what  sort  of  a  house  ?"  murmured  Wingfold. 

"Yes  uncle,"  said  Rachel ;  "  but  think  how  he  keeps 


268  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


about  us,  haunting  the  doors  and  windows  like  the  very 
wind,  watching  to  get  in  !  And  sometimes  he  makes  of 
himself  a  tempest,  that  both  doors  and  windows  fly 
open,  and  he  enters  in  fear  and  dismay." 

The  prophetic  in  the  uncle  was  the  poetic  in  the 
niece. 

"  For  you  and  me,  uncle,"  she  went  on,  "  he  made 
the  doors  and  windows  so  rickety,  that  they  could  not 
keep  him  out." 

"  Ye  are  the  temples  of  the  Holy  Ghost,"  said  the  cu- 
rate, almost  unconsciously. 

"  Ain't  we  funny  temples  !"  rejoined  the  girl. 

So  full  was  her  soul  of  a  lively  devotion  that  she 
took  the  liberties  of  a  child  of  the  house  with  sacred 
things. 

"  But,  Mr.  Wingfold,"  she  continued,  "  I  must  tell  you 
one  more  curious  thing  about  my  dreams  :  I  7iever 
dream  of  being  crooked  and  dwarfish.  I  don't  dream 
that  I  am  straight  either  ;  I  suppose  I  feel  all  right,  and 
therefore  never  think  about  it.  That  makes  me  fancy 
my  soul  must  be  straight.     Don't  you  think  so,  sir  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  said  Wingfold  warmly. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  telling  you  some  of  my  dreams 
some  day." 

"  We  are  rather  given  to  that  weakness,"  said  Pol- 
warth,  "  so  much  so  as  to  make  me  fear  for  our  brairds 
sometimes.  But  a  crooked  rose-tree  may  yet  bear  a 
good  rose." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  thinking  of  my  poor  father,  uncle,  I 
know,"  said  Rachel.   "  His  was  a  straight  stem  and  a  fine 


RACHEL.  269 


rose,  only  overblown,  perhaps.  I  don't  think  I  need  be 
much  afraid  of  that,  for  if  I  were  to  go  out  of  my  mind, 
I  should  not  have  strength  to  live — except,  indeed,  I 
knew  God  through  all  the  madness.  I  think  my  father 
did  in  a  way." 

"  It  was  quite  plain  he  did,"  answered  her  uncle,  "  and 
that  in  no  feeble  way  either.  Some  day  I  must  tell 
you" — here  he  turned  to  Wingfold — "  about  that  bro- 
ther of  mine,  Rachel's  father.  I  should  even  like  to 
show  you  a  manuscript  he  left  behind  him — surely  one 
^  of  the  strangest  ever  written  !     It  would  be  well  worth 

I  printing  if  that  would  insure  its  falling  into  the  hands 

of  those  who  could  read  through  the  madness. — But  we 
have  talked  quite  long  enough  for  your  head,  child  :  J 
will  take  Mr.  Wingfold  into  the  next  room." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


THE    BUTTERFLY. 


S  Wingfold  walked  home  that  afternoon,  he 
thought  much  of  what  he  had  heard  and 
seen.  "  If  there  be  a  God,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  then  all  is  well,  for  certainly  he  would 
not  give  being  to  such  a  woman,  and  then  throw  her 
aside  as  a  failure  and  forget  her.  It  is  strange  to  see, 
though,  how  he  permits  his  work  to  be  thwarted.  To 
be  the  perfect  God  notwithstanding,  he  must  be  able  to 
turn  the  very  thwarting  to  higher  furtherance.  Don't 
we  see  something  of  the  sort  in  life — the  vigorous  nursed 
by  the  arduous  ?  Is  it  presumptuous  to  imagine  God 
saying  to  Rachel,  'Trust  me  and  bear,  and  I  will  do 
better  for  thee  than  thou  canst  think  '  ?  Certainly 
the  one  who  most  needs  the  comfort  of  such  a 
faith,  in  this  case  has  it.  I  wish  I  could  be  as  sure  of 
him  as  Rachel  Polwarth  !  But  then,"  he  added,  smiling 
to  himself,  "  she  has  had  her  crooked  spine  to  help  her  ! 
It  seems  as  if  nothing  less  than  the  spiritual  behold- 


THE   BUTTERFLY.  27I 


ing  of  the  Eternal  will  enable  at  least  absolute  belief. 
And  till  then  what  better  or  indeed  other  proof  can  the 
less  receive  of  the  presence  of  the  greater  than  the  ex- 
pansion of  its  own  being  under  the  influences  of  that 
greater  ?  But  my  plague  now  is  that  the  ideas  of  reli- 
gion are  so  grand,  and  the  things  all  around  it  in  life  so 
commonplace,  that  they  give  the  lie  to  each  other  from 
morning  to  night — in  my  mind,  I  mean.  Which  is  the 
true  ;  a  loving,  caring  father,  or  the  grinding  of  cruel 
poverty  and  the  naked  exposure  to  heedless  chance  ? 
How  is  it  that,  while  the  former  seems  the  only  right 
reasonable,  and  all-sufiicing  thing,  it  should  yet  come 
more  naturally  to  believe  in  the  latter  ?  And  yet,  when 
I  think  of  it,  I  never  did  come  closer  to  believing  in  the 
matterthanis  indicated  by  terror  of  its  possible  truth — 
so  many  things  looked  like  it.  Then  what  has  nature  in 
common  with  the  Bible  and  its  metaphysics  ? — There  I 
am  wrong  :  she  has  a  thousand  things.  The  very  wind 
on  my  face  seems  to  rouse  me  to  fresh  effort  after  a  pure, 
healthy  life  !  Then  there  is  the  sunrise  !  There  is  the 
snowdrop  in  the  snow  !  There  is  the  butter  fly  !  There  is 
the  rain  of  summer,  and  the  clearing  of  the  sky  after  a 
storm  !  There  is  the  hen  gathering  her  chickens  under 
her  wing  !  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  there  be  the  com- 
monplace anywhere  except  in  our  own  mistrusting  na- 
ture, that  will  cast  no  care  upon  the  Unseen.  It  is  with 
me  in  regard  to  my  better  life  as  it  was  with  the  disci- 
ples in  regard  to  their  bodily  life,  when  they  were  for 
the  time  rendered  incapable  of  understanding  the  words 
of  our  Lord  by  having  forgotten  to  take  bread  in  the 


272  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


boat :  they  were  so  afraid  of  being  hungry  that  they  could 
think  of  nothing  but  bread," 

Such  were  some  of  the  curate's  thoughts  as  he  walked 
home,  and  they  drove  him  to  prayer,  m  which  came  more 
thoughts.  When  he  reached  his  room  he  sat  down  at  his 
table,  and  wove  and  knotted  and  pieced  together  the  fol- 
lowing verses,  venturing  that  easy  yet  perilous  thing,  a 
sonnet.     Igive  here  its  final  shape,  not  its  first  or  second  : 

Methought  I  floated  sightless,  nor  did  know 
That  I  had  ears  until  I  heard  the  cry 
As  of  a  mighty  man  in  agony : 
"  How  long,  Lord,  shall  I  lie  thus  foul  and  slow? 
The  arrows  of  thy  lightning  through  me  go, 
And  sting  and  torture  me — yet  here  I  lie 
A  shapeless  mass  that  scarce  can  mould  a  sigh." 
The  darkness  thinned  ;  I  saw  a  thing  below, 
Like  sheeted  corpse,  a  knot  at  head  and  feet. 
Slow  clomb  the  sun  the  mountains  of  the  dead, 
And  looked  upon  the  world  :  the  silence  broke  ! 
A  blinding  struggle  !  then  the  thunderous  beat 
Of  great  exulting  pinions  stroke  on  stroke  ! 
And  from  that  world  a  mighty  angel  fled. 

But  upon  the  heels  of  the  sonnet  came,  as  was  natu- 
ral, according  to  the  law  of  reaction,  a  fresh  and  more 
appalling,  because  more  self-assertive  and  verisimilous, 
invasion  of  the  commonplace.  What  a  foolish,  unreal 
thing  he  had  written  !  He  caught  up  his  hat  and  stick 
and  hurried  out,  thinking  to  combat  the  demon  better 
in  the  open  air. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THECOMMONPLACE. 

T  was  evening,  and  the  air  was  still  and  warm. 
Pine  street  was  almost  empty  save  of  the 
red  sun,  which  blinded  him  so  that  wherever 
he  looked  he  could  only  see  great  sun-blots. 
All  but  a  few  of  the  shops  were  closed,  but  among  the 
few  he  was  surprised  to  find  that  of  his  friend  the  linen- 
draper,  who  had  always  been  a  strong  advocate  of  early 
closing.  The  shutters  were  up,  however,  though  the 
door  stood  wide  open.  He  peeped  in.  To  his  sun-blind- 
ed eyes  the  shop  looked  very  dark,  but  he  thought  he 
saw  Mr.  Drew  talking  to  some  one,  and  entered.  He 
was  right :  it  was  the  draper  himself  and  a  poor  v^oman 
with  a  child  on  one  arm,  and  a  print  dress  she  had  just 
bought  on  the  other.  The  curate  leaned  against  the 
counter,  and  waited  until  business  should  be  over  to  ad- 
dress his  friend. 

"  Is  Mr.  Drew  an  embryonic  angel  ?"  he  half  felt,  half 
thought  with  himself.  "  Is  this  shop  the  chrysalis  of  a 
great  psyche?*  Will  the  draper,  with  his  round,  good- 


274  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

humored  face  and  puckering  smile,  ever  spread  thunder- 
ous wings  and  cleave  the  air  up  to  the  throne  of  God  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  how  it  goes  against  me  to  take  that 
woman's  money,"  said  the  voice  of  the  draper. 

The  curate  woke  up  to  the  presence  of  the  unwinged, 
and  saw  that  the  woman  had  left  the  shop. 

"  I  did  let  her  have  the  print  at  cost  price,''  Mr.  Drew 
went  on,  laughing  merrily.  "  That  was  all  I  could  ven- 
ture on." 

"  Where  was  the  danger  ?" 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  so  well  as  I  do  the  good  of  hav- 
ing some  difficulty  in  getting  what  you  need  !  To  ease 
the  struggles  of  the  poor,  except  it  be  in  sickness  or  ab- 
solute want,  I  have  repeatedly  proved  to  be  a  cruel 
kindness." 

"  Then  you  don't  sell  to  the  poor  women  at  cost  price 
always  .''" 

"  No  ;  only  to  the  soldiers'  wives.  They  have  a  very 
hard  life  of  it,  poor  things." 

"  That  is  your  custom,  then  ?" 

"  For  the  last  ten  years.  But  I  don't  let  them  know 
it." 

"  Is  it  for  the  soldiers'  wi\^es  you  keep  your  shop  open 
so  late  ?  I  thought  you  were  the  great  supporter  of  ear- 
ly closing  in  Glaston,"  said  the  curate. 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened  to-night,"  answered 
the  draper,  and  as  he  spoke  he  turned  round,  not  his 
long  left  ear  upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull,  but  his  whole 
person  upon  the  pivot  of  the  counter— to  misuse  the 


THE   COMMONPLACE.  275 

word  pivot  with  Wordsworth — and  bolted  the  shop- 
door. 

"  After  the  young  men  had  put  up  the  shutters  and 
were  gone,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  counter,  "  leaving 
me  as  usual  to  bolt  the  door,  I  fell  a-thinking.  Outside, 
the  street  was  full  of  sunlight,  but  only  enough  came  in 
to  show  how  gloomy  the  place  was  without  more  of  it, 
and  the  back  of  the  shop  was  nearly  dark.  It  was  very 
still,  too — so  still  that  the  silence  seemed  to  have  taken 
the  shape  of  gloom.  Pardon  me  for  talking  in  this  un- 
business-like  way  :  a  man  can't  be  a  draper  always  ;  he 
must  be  foolish  sometimes.  Thirty  years  ago  I  used  to 
read  Tennyson.  I  believe  I  was  among  the  earliest  of 
his  admirers." 

"  Foolish  !"  echoed  Wingfold,  thoughtfully. 

"  You  see,"  the  draper  went  on,  "  there  is  something 
solemn  in  the  quiet  after  business  is  over.  Sometimes 
it's  more  so,  sometimes  less  ;  but  this  night  it  came  upon 
me  that  the  shop  felt  like  a  chapel — had  the  very  air 
of  one,  somehow,  and  so  I  fell  a-thinking,  and  forgot  to 
shut  the  door.  How  I  began  I  don't  know,  but  my  past 
life  came  up  to  me,  and  I  remembered  how,  when  I  was 
a  young  man,  I  used  to  despise  my  father's  business  to 
which  he  was  bringing  me  up,  and  feed  my  fancy  with 
things  belonging  to  higher  walks  in  life.  Then  I  saw 
that  must  have  been  partly  how  I  fell  into  the  mistake 
of  marrying  Mrs.  Drew.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
doctor  in  our  town,  a  widower.  He  was  in  poor  health, 
and  unable  to  make  much  of  his  practice,  so  that 
when  he  died  she  was  left  destitute,  and  for  that  reason 


276  THOMAS   WINGP^OLD,    CURATE. 

alone,  I  do  believe,  accepted  me.  What  followed  you 
know  ;  she  went  away  with  a  man  who  used  to  travel 
for  a  large  Manchester  house.  I  have  never  heard  of  her 
since. 

"  After  she  left  me,  a  sort  of  something  which  I  think 
I  may  call  the  disease  of  self-preservation  laid  hold 
upon  me.  I  must  acknowledge  that  the  loss  of  my  wife 
was  not  altogether  a  misery.  She  despised  my  trade, 
which  drove  me  to  defend  it — and  the  more  bitterly  that 
I  also  despised  it.  There  was,  therefore,  a  good  deal  of 
strife  between  us.  I  did  not  make  allowance  enough 
for  the  descent  she  had  made  from  a  professional  father 
to  a  trader-husband,  I  forgot  that,  if  she  was  to  blame 
for  marrying  me  for  bread,  I  was  to  blame  for  marrying 
her  to  enlarge  myself  with  her  superiority.  After  she, 
was  gone  I  was  aware  of  a  not  unwelcome  calm  in  the 
house,  and  in  the  emptiness  of  that  calm  came  the  demon 
of  selfishness  sevenfold  into  my  heart,  and  took  up  his 
abode  with  me.  From  that  time  I  busied  myself  only 
about  two  things — the  safety  of  my  soul  and  a  good 
provision  for  my  body.  I  joined  the  church  I  had  occa- 
sion to  mention  to  you  before,  sir,  grew  a  little  harder 
in  my  business  dealings,  and  began  to  lay  by  money. 
And  so,  ever  since,  have  I  been  going  on  till  I  heard 
your  sermon  the  other  day,  which  I  hope  has  waked  me 
up  to  so-mething  better.  All  this  long  story  is  but  to  let 
you  understand  how  I  was  feeling  when  that  woman 
came  into  the  shop.  I  told  you  how,  in  the  dusk  and  the 
silence,  it  was  as  if  I  were  in  the  chapel.  I  found  myself 
half  listening  for  the  organ.     Then  the  verse  of  a  hymn 


THE   COMMONPLACE.  277 

came  into  my  mind — I  can't  tell  where  or  when  I  had 
met  with  it,  but  it  had  stuck  to  me  :  ^ 

"  '  Let  me  stand  ever  at  the  door, 

And  keep  it  from  the  entering  sin, 
That  so  thy  temple,  walls  and  floor, 
Be  pure  for  thee  to  enter  in.' 

Now  that,  you  see,  is  said  of  the  temple  of  the  heart ; 
but  somehow  things  went  rather  cross-cut  this  evening 
— they  got  muddled  in  my  head.  It  seemed  as  if  I  was 
the  door-keeper  of  my  shop,  and  at  the  same  time  as  if 
my  shop,  spreading  out  and  dimly  vanishing  in  the  sa- 
cred gloom,  was  the  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  out  of 
which  I  had  to  keep  the  sin.  And  with  the  thought  a 
great  awe  fell  upon  me  :  could  it  be — might  it  not  be  that 
God  was  actually  in  the  place  ?  that  in  the  silence  he 
was  thinking — in  the  gloom  he  was  knowing?  I  laid 
myself  over  the  counter,  with  my  face  in  my  hands,  and 
went  on  half  thinking,  half  praying.  All  at  once  the 
desire  rose  burning  in  my  heart,  Would  to  God  my 
house  were  in  truth  a  holy  place,  haunted  by  his  pres- 
ence !  '  And  wherefore  not  ? '  rejoiced  something  with- 
in me — heart  or  brain  or  something  deeper  than  either. 
'  Is  thy  work  unholy  ?  Are  thy  deeds  base  ?  Is  thy 
buying  or  selling  dishonest  ?  Is  it  all  for  thyself  and  no- 
thing for  thy  fellows  ?  Is  it  not  a  lawful  calling  ?  Is  it 
or  is  it  not  of  God  ?  If  it  be  of  God,  and  yet  he  be  not 
present,  then  surely  thy  lawful  calling  thou  followest 
unlawfully  !'  So  there  I  was — brought  back  to  the  old 
story.    And  I  said  to  myself,  '  God  knows  I  want  to  fol- 


278  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


low  it  lawfully.  Am  I  not  even  now  seeking  how  to  do 
so  ?'  But  this,  though  true,  did  not  satisfy  me.  To  fol- 
low it  lawfully — even  in  his  sight — no  longer  seemed 
enough.  Was  there  then  no  possibility  of  raising  it  to 
dignity.^  Did  the  business  of  Zaccheus  remain,  after 
the  visit  of  Jesus,  a  contemptible  one  still  ?  Could  not 
mine  be  made  Christian  ?  Was  there  no  corner  in  the 
temple  where  a  man  might  buy  and  sell  and  not  be 
driven  out  by  the  whip  of  small  cords  ?  I  heard  a  step  in 
the  shop,  and  lifting  my  head,  saw  a  poor  woman  with 
a  child  in  her  arms.  Annoyed  at  being  found  in  that 
posture,  like  one  drunk  or  in  despair  ;  annoyed  also  with 
myself  for  not  having  shut  the  door,  with  my  usual  first 
tendency  to  injustice  a  harsh  word  was  trembling  on  my 
very  lips,  when  suddenly  something  made  me  look 
round  in  a  kind  of  maze  on  the  dusky  back-shop.  A 
moment  more  and  I  understood  :  God  was  waiting  to  see 
what  truth  was  in  my  words.  That  is  just  how  I  felt  it, 
and  I  hope  I  am  not  irreverent  in  saying  so.  Then  I 
saw  that  the  poor  woman  looked  frightened — I  suppose 
at  my  looks  and  gestures  ;  perhaps  she  thought  me  out 
of  my  mind.  I  made  haste  and  received  her,  and  listen- 
ed to  her  errand  as  if  she  had  been  a  duchess — say  rath- 
er an  angel  of  God,  for  such  1  felt  her  in  my  heart  to 
be.  She  wanted  a  bit  of  dark  print  with  a  particular 
kind  of  spot  in  it,  which  she  had  seen  in  the  shop  some 
months  before  but  had  not  been  able  to  buy.  I  turned 
over  every  thing  we  had,  and  was  nearly  in  despair.  At 
last,  however,  I  found  the  very  piece  which  had  ever 
since  haunted  her  fancy— just  enough  of  it  left  for  a 


THE  COMMONPLACE.  279 


dress  !  But  all  the  time  I  sought  it  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
doing  God  service — or  at  least  doing  something  he 
wanted  me  to  do.  It  sounds  almost  ludicrous  now, 
but—" 

"  God  forbid  !"  said  Wingfold. 

"  I'm  glad  you  don't  think  so,  sir.  I  was  afraid  you 
would." 

"  Had  the  thing  been  a  trifle,  I  should  still  have  said 
the  same,"  returned  the  curate.  "  But  who  with  any 
heart  would  call  it  a  trifle  to  please  the  fancy  of  a  poor 
woman,  one  who  is  probably  far  oftener  vexed  than 
pleased.''  She  had  been  brooding  over  this  dress;  you 
took  trouble  to  content  her  with  her  desire.  Who 
knows  what  it  may  do  for  the  growth  of  the  woman 
I  know  what  you've  done  for  me  by  the  story  of  it  !" 

"  She  did  walk  out  pleased-like  !"  said  the  draper, 
"  and  left  me  more  pleased  than  she — and  so  grateful  to 
her  for  coming,  you  can't  think  !" 

"  I  begin  to  suspect,"  said  the  curate,  after  a  pause, 
"  that  the  common  transactions  of  hfe  are  the  most  sa- 
cred channels  for  the  spread  of  the  heavenly  leaven. 
There  was  ten  times  more  of  the  divine  in  selling  her 
that  gown  as  you  did,  in  the  name  of  God,  than  in  tak- 
ing her  into  your  pew  and  singing  out  of  the  same 
hymn-book  with  her." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  do  that  next,  though,  if  I  had  the 
^:hance,"  said  Mr.  Drew.  "  You  must  not  think,  because 
he  has  done  me  so  little  good,  that  our  minister  is  not  a 
faithful  preacher  ;  and,  owing  you  more  than  heart  can 
tell,  sir,  I  like  chapel  better  than  church,  and  consider  it 


28o  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

nearer  the  right  way.  I  don't  mean  to  be  a  turncoat 
and  leave  Drake  for  you,  sir.  I  must  give  up  my  dea- 
conship,  but  I  won't  my  pew  or  my  subscription." 

"  Quite  right,  Mr.  Drew  !"  said  Wingfold.  "  That 
could  do  nothing  but  harm.  I  have  just  been  reading 
what  our  Lord  says  about  proselytizing.     Good  night." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 


HOME    AGAIN. 


HE  curate  had  entered  the  draper's  shop  in 
the  full  blaze  of  sunset,  but  the  demon  of 
unbelief  sat  on  his  shoulders  :  he  could  get 
no  nearer  his  heart,  but  that  was  enough  to 
make  of  the  **  majestical  roof  fretted  with  golden  fire 
.  .  .  .  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapors." 
When  he  left  the  shop,  the  sun  was  far  below  the  hori- 
zon, and  the  glory  had  faded  out  of  the  west;  but  the 
demon  had  fled,  and  the  brown  feathers  of  the  twilight 
were  beautiful  as  the  wings  of  the  silver  dove  sprung 
heavenwards  from  among  the  pots.  And  as  he  went  he 
reasoned  with  himself :  "  Either  there  is  a  God,  and  that 
God  the  perfect  heart  of  truth  and  loveliness,  or  all  poe- 
try and  art  is  but  an  unsown,  unplanted,  rootless  flower 
crowning  a  somewhat  symmetrical  heap  of  stones..  The 
man  who  sees  no  beauty  in  its  petals,  finds  no  perfume 
in  its  breath,  may  well  accord  it  the  parentage  of  the 
stones  ;  the  man  whose  heart  swells  beholding  it,  will 
be  ready  to  think  it  has  roots  that  reach  below  them." 


282  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


The  curate's  search,  it  will  be  remarked,  had  already 
widened  greatly  the  sphere  of  his  doubts  ;  but  the  lar- 
ger the  field  the  greater  the  chance  of  finding  a  marl-pit ; 
and  if  there  be  such  a  thing  as  truth,  every  fresh  doubt 
is  yet  another  finger-post  pointing  towards  its  dwelling. 
So  talked  the  curate  to  himself,  and,  full  in  the  face, 
rounding  the  corner  of  a  street,  met  George  Bascombe. 

The  young  barrister  held  out  his  large  hospitable  hand 
at  the  full  length  of  his  arm,  and  spread  abroad  his  wide 
chest  to  greet  him,  and  they  went  through  the  ceremo- 
ny of  shaking  hands — which,  even  in  their  case,  I  can  not 
judge  so  degrading  and  hypocritical  as  the  Latin  nations 
seem  to  consider  it.     Then  Wingfold  had  the  first  word. 

"  I  have  not  yet  had  an  opportunity  of  thanking  you 
for  the  great  service  j'^ou  have  done  me,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  I  have  such  an  honor  ;  but — " 

"  I  mean  in  opening  my  eyes  to  my  true  position." 

"  Ah,  my  dear  fellow  !  I  was  sure  you  only  required 
to  have  your  attention  turned  in  the  right  direction. 
When— ah  !— I— I  was  on  the  verge  of  committing  the 
solecism  of  asking  when  you  thought  of  resigning  ! 
Ha !  ha !" 

"  Not  yet,"  replied  Wingfold  to  the  question  thus  at 
once  withdrawn  and  put.  "The  more  I  look  into  the 
matter,  the  more  reason  I  find  for  hoping  it  may  be 
possible  for  me  to — to  keep  the  appointment." 

"Oh!" 

"The  further  I  inquire,  the  more  am  I  convinced  that 
if  not  in  a  certain  portion  of  what  the  church  teaches, 
then  nowhere  else,  and  assuredly  not  in  what  you  teach. 


HOME   AGAIN.  283 


shall  I  find  any  thing  by  which  life  can  either  account 
for  or  justify  itself." 

'•  But  if  what  you  find  is  not  true  !"  cried  George,  with 
a  burst  of  semi-grand  indignation. 

"  But  if  what  I  find  should  be  true,  even  though  you 
should  never  be  able  to  see  it !"  returned  the  curate. 

And  as  if  disjected  by  an  explosion  between  them,  the 
two  men  were  ten  paces  asunder,  each  hurrying  his  own 
wa3^ 

''  If  I  can't  prove  there  is  a  God,"  said  Wingfold  to 
himself,  "  as  little  surely  can  he  prove  there  is  none  !" 

But  then  came  the  thought,  "  The  fellow  will  say 
that,  there  being  no  sign  of  a  God,  the  burden  of  proof 
lies  with  me." 

And  therewith  he  saw  how  useless  it  would  be  to  dis- 
cuss the  question  with  any  one  who,  not  seeing  him,  had 
no  desire  to  see  him. 

"  No  !"  he  said,  "  my  business  is  not  to  prove  to  any 
other  man  that  there  is  a  God,  but  to  find  him  for  my-  [/^ 

self.     If  I  should  find  him,  then  will  be  time  enough  to 
think  of  showing  him." 

And  with  that  his  thoughts  turned  from  Bascombe  and 
went  back  to  the  draper.  When  he  reached  home  he 
took  out  his  sonnet,  but  after  working  at  it  for  a  little 
while,  he  found  that  he  must  ease  his  heart  by  writing 
another.     Here  it  is : 

Methought  that  in  a  solemn  church  I  stood. 

Its  marble  acres,  worn  with  knees  and  feet, 

Lay  spread  from  door  to  door,  from  street  to  street. 

Midway  the  form  hung  high  upon  the  road 


284  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


Of  Him  who  gave  his  life  to  be  our  good  ; 
Beyond,  priests  flitted,  bowed,  and  murmured  meet 
Among  the  candles  shining  still  and  sweet. 
Men  came  and  went,  and  worshipped  as  they  could, 
And  still  their  dust  a  woman  with  her  broom, 
Bowed  to  her  work,  kept  sweeping  to  the  door. 
Then  saw  I,  slow  through  all  the  pillared  gloom, 
Across  the  church  a  silent  figure  come : 
"  Daughter,"  it  said,  "  thou  sweepest  well  my  floor !" 
It  is  the  Lord,  I  cried,  and  saw  no  more. 

I  suppose  if  one  could  so  stop  the  throat  of  the  blossom- 
buried  nightingale  that,  though  he  might  breathe  at 
will,  he  could  no  longer  sing,  he  would  drop  from  his 
bough,  and  die  of  suppressed  song.  Perhaps  some  men 
so  die  ;  I  do  not  know,:  it  were  better  than  to  live  and 
bore  their  friends  with  the  insuppressible  !  But  how- 
ever this  may  be,  the  man  who  can  utter  himself  to  his 
own  joy  in  any  of  the  forms  of  human  expression,  let 
him  give  thanks  to  God  ;  and  if  he  give  not  his  verses 
to  the  printer,  he  will  probably  have  cause  to  give 
thanks  again.  To  the  man's  self  the  utterance  is,  not 
the  less,  invaluable.    And  so  Wingfold  found  it. 

He  went  out  again  and  into  the  churchyard,  where 
he  sat  down  on  a  stone. 

"  How  strange,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  that  out  of  faith 
should  have  sprung  that  stone  church.  A  poor  lit- 
tle poem  now  and  then  is  all  that  stands  for  mine  ! — all 
that  shows,  that  is.  But  my  heart  does  sometimes  burn 
within  me  !  If  only  I  could  be  sure  they  were  his  words 
that  set  it  burning  !" 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE     SHEATH. 

R  WINGFOLD,"  said  Polwarth  one  evening, 
the  usual  salutations  over,  taking  what  he 
commonly  left  to  his  friend — the  initiative,— 
"  I  want  to  tell  you  something  I  don't  wish 
even  Rachel  to  hear." 

He  led  the  way  to  his  room,  and  the  curate  followed. 
Seated  there,  in  the  shadowy  old  attic,  through  the  very 
walls  of  which  the  ivy  grew,  and  into  which,  by  the  open 
window  in  the  gable,  from  the  infinite  west  blew  the 
evening  air,  carrying  with  it  the  precious  scent  of  honey- 
suckle to  mingle  with  that  of  old  books,  Polwarth  re- 
counted and  Wingfold  listened  to  a  strange  adventure. 
The  trees  hid  the  sky,  and  the  little  human  nest  was 
dark  around  them. 

"  I  am  going  to  make  a  confidant  of  you,  Mr.  Wing- 
fold,"  said  the  dwarf,  with  troubled  face  and  almost 
whispered  word.  "You  will  know  how  much  I  have 
already  learned  to  trust  you  when  I  say  that  what  I  am 
about  to  confide  to  you  plainly  involves  the  secret  o" 
another." 


286  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

His  large  face  grew  paler  as  he  spoke,  and  something 
almost  like  feargrew  in  his  eyes,  but  they  looked  straight 
into  those  of  the  curate,  and  his  voice  did  not  tremble. 

"  One  night,  some  weeks  ago — I  can,  if  necessary, 
make  myself  certain  of  the  date, — I  was — no  uncommon 
thing  with  me — unable  to  sleep.  Sometimes,  when  such 
is  m.y  case,  I  lie  as  still  and  happy  as  any  bird  under  the 
wing  of  its  mother  ;  at  other  times  I  must  get  up  and 
go  out :  for  I  take  longings  for  air  almost  as  a  drunkard 
for  wine,  and  that  night  nothing  would  serve  my  poor 
imprisoned  soul  but  more  air  through  the  bars  of  its 
lungs.     I  rose,  dressed,  and  went  out. 

•'  It  was  a  still,  warm  night,  no  moon,  but  plenty  of 
star-light,  the  wind  blowing  as  now,  gentle  and  sweet 
and  cool — just  the  wind  my  lungs  sighed  for.  I  got  into 
the  open  park,  avoiding  the  trees,  and  wandered  on  and 
on,  without  thinking  where  I  was  going.  The  turf  was 
soft  under  my  feet,  the  dusk  soft  to  my  eyes,  and  the 
wind  to  my  soul ;  I  had  breath  and  room  and  leisure  and 
silence  and  loneliness,  and  everything  to  make  me  more 
than  usually  happy ;  and  so  I  wandered  on  and  on,  nei- 
ther caring  nor  looking  whither  I  went :  so  long  as 
the  stars  remained  unclouded  I  could  find  my  way  back 
when'I  pleased. 

"  I  had  been  out  perhaps  an  hour,  when  through  the 
soft  air  came  a  cry,  apparently  from  far  off.  There  was 
something  in  the  tone  that  seemed  to  me  unusually 
frightful.  The  bare  sound  made  me  shudder  before  1 
had  time  to  say  to  myself  it  was  a  cry.  I  turned  my  face 
in  the  direction  of  it,  so  far  as  I  could  judge,  and  went 


THE   SHEATH.  287 


on.  I  can  not  run,  for  if  I  attempt  it  I  am  in  a  m(3- 
ment  unable  even  to  walk — from  palpitation  and  chok- 
ing. 

"  I  had  not  gone  very  far  before  I  found  myself  ap- 
proaching the  hollow  where  stands  the  old  house  of 
Glaston,  uninhabited  for  twenty  years.  Was  it  possible, 
I  thought,  that  the  cry  came  from  the  house,  and  had, 
therefore,  sounded  farther  off  than  it  was  ?  I  stood  arid 
listened  for  a  moment,  but  all  seemed  still  as  the  grave. 
I  must  go  in,  and  see  whether  any  one  was  there  in  want 
of  help.  You  may  well  smile  at  the  idea  of  my  helping 
any  one,  for  what  could  I  do  if  it  came  to  a  struggle  ?" 

"On  the  contrary,"  interrupted  Wingfold,  "I  was 
smiling  with  admiration  of  your  pluck." 

"At  least,"  resumed  Polwarth,  "I  have  this  advan- 
tage over  some,  that  I  cannot  be  fooled  with  the  fancy 
that  this  poor  miserable  body  of  mine  is  worth  thinking 
of  beside  the  smallest  suspicion  of  duty.  What  is  it  but 
a  cracked  jug  ?  So  down  the  slope  I  went,  got  into  the 
garden,  and  made  my  way  through  the  tangled  bushes 
to  the  house.  I  knew  the  place  perfectly,  for  I  had 
often  wandered  all  over  it,  sometimes  spending  hours 
there. 

"  Before  I  reached  the  door,  however,  I  heard  some 
one  behind  me  in  the  garden,  and  instantly  stepped  into 
a  thicket  of  gooseberry  and  currant  bushes.  It  is  sonie- 
times  an  advantage  to  be  little :  the  moment  I  stepped 
aside  I  was  hidden.  That  same  moment  the  night  seem' 
ed  rent  in  twain  by  a  most  hideous  cry  from  the  house. 
Ere  I  could  breathe  again  after  it,  the  tall  figure  of  a  wo- 


288  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

man  rushed  past  me,  tearing  its  way  tlirough  the  bushes 
towards  the  door.  I  followed  instantly,  saw  her  run  up 
the  steps,  and  heard  her  open  and  shut  the  door.  I 
opened  it  as  quietly  as  I  could,  but  just  as  I  stepped  into 
the  dark  hall  came  a  third  fearful  cry,  through  the 
echoes  of  which  in  the  empty  house  I  heard  the  rush  of 
hurried  feet  and  trailing  garments  on  the  stair.  As  I  say, 
I  knew  the  house  quite  well,  but  my  perturbation  had  so 
muddled  the  idea  of  it  in  my  brain,  that  for  a  few  sec- 
onds I  had  to  consider  how  it  lay.  The  moment  I  re- 
called its  plan,  I  made  what  haste  I  could,  reached  the 
top  of  the  stair,  and  was  hesitating  which  way  to  turn, 
when  once  more  came  the  fearful  cry,  and  set  me  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot.  I  can  not  describe  the  horror 
of  it.  It  was  as  the  cry  of  a  soul  in  torture — unlike  any 
sound  of  the  human  voice  I  had  ever  before  heard.  I 
shudder  now  at  the  recollection  of  it  as  it  echoed 
through  the  house,  clinging  to  the  walls  and  driven 
along.  I  was  hurrying  I  knew  not  whither,  for  I  had 
again  lost  all  notion  of  the  house,  when  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  light  shining  from  under  a  door.  I  ap- 
proached it  softly,  and  finding  that  door  inside  a  small 
closet,  knew  at  once  where  I  was.  As  I  was  in  office  on 
the  ground,  and  it  could  hardly  be  anything  righteous 
that  led  to  such  an  outcry  in  the  house  which,  although 
deserted,  was  still  my  master's,  I  felt  justified  in 
searching  further  into  the  matter.  Laying  my  ear,  there- 
fore, against  the  door,  I  heard  what  was  plainly  enough 
a  lady's  voice.  Right  sweet  and  womanly  it  was,  though 
full  of  pain — even  agony,  I  thought,  but  heroically  sup- 


THE   SHEATH.  289 


pressed.  She  soothed,  she  expostulated,  she  condoled, 
she  coaxed.  Mingled  with  hers  was  the  voice  of  youth, 
as  it  seemed.  It  was  wild,  yet  so  low  as  sometimes  to 
be  all  but  inaudible,  and  not  a  word  from  either  could  I 
distinguish.  Hardly  the  less  plain  was  it,  however,  that 
the  youth  spoke  either  in  delirium  or  with  something 
terrible  on  his  mind,  for  his  tones  were  those  of  one  in 
despair.  I  stood  for  a  time  bewildered,  fascinated,  ter- 
rified. At  length  I  grew  convinced  somehow  that  I  had 
no  right  to  be  there.  Doubtless  the  man  was  in  hiding, 
and  where  a  man  hides  there  must  be  reason  ;  but  was  it 
any  business  of  mine  ?  I  crept  out  of  the  house,  and  up 
to  the  higher  ground.  There  I  drew  deep  breaths  of 
the  sweet  night  air — so  pure  that  it  seemed  to  be  washing 
the  world  clean  for  another  day's  uses.  But  I  had  no 
longer  any  pleasure  in  the  world.  I  went  straight  home, 
and  to  bed  again — but  had  brought  little  repose  with  me  : 
I  must  do  something,  but  what  ?  The  only  result  cer- 
tain to  follow  was  more  trouble  to  the  troubled  already. 
Might  there  not  be  innocent  reasons  for  the  question- 
able situation  ?  Might  not  the  man  have  been  taken  ill, 
and  so  suddenly  that  he  could  reach  no  other  shelter? 
And  the  lady  might  be  his  wife,  who  had  gone  as  soon 
as  she  could  leave  him  to  find  help,   but  had  failed. 

nere  must  be  some  simple  explanation  of  the  matter, 
i.owever  strange  it  ^howed  !  I  might,  in  the  morning, 
be  of  service  to  them.  And  partly  comforted  by  the 
temporary  conclusion,  I  got  a  little  troubled  sleep. 

"  As  soon  as  I  had  had  a  cup  of  tea,  I  set  out  for  the  old 
house.     I  heard  the  sounds  of  the  workmen's  hammers 


290  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

on  the  new  one  as  I  went.  All  else  was  siience.  The  day- 
looked  so  honest  and  so  clear  of  conscience  that  it  was 
difficult  to  believe  the  night  had  shrouded  such  an  aw- 
ful meeting.  Yet,  in  the  broad  light  of  the  forenoon,  a 
cold  shudder  seized  me  when  first  I  looked  down  on  the 
slae3i  ridges  and  broken  roofs  of  the  old  house.  When 
I  got  into  the  garden  I  began  to  sing  and  knock  the 
bushes  about,  then  opened  the  door  noisily,  and  clat- 
tered about  in  the  hall  and  the  lower  rooms  before  go- 
ing up  the  stair.  Along  every  passage  and  into  every 
room  I  went,  to  give  good  warning  ere  1  approached 
that  in  which  I  had  heard  the  voices.  At  length  I  stood 
at  the  door  of  it  and  knocked.  There  was  no  answer. 
I  knocked  again.  Still  no  answer.  I  opened  it  and 
peeped  in.  There  was  no  one  there  !  An  old  bedstead 
was  all  I  saw.  I  searched  every  corner,  but  not  one 
trace  could  I  discover  of  human  being  having  been 
there,  except  this  behind  the  bed — and  it  may  have  lain 
there  as  long  as  the  mattress,  which  I  remember  since 
the  first  time  I  ever  went  into  the  house." 

As  he  spoke,  Polwarth  handed  to  the  curate  a  small 
leather  sheath,  which,  from  its  shape,  could  not  have 
belonged  to  a  pair  of  scissors,  although  neither  of  the 
men  knew  any  sort  of  knife  it  would  have  fitted. 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  care  of  it,  Mr.  Wingfold  ?" 
the  gate-keeper  continued  as  the  curate  examined  it ; 
"  I  don't  like  having  it.  I  can't  even  bear  to  think  of  it 
in  the  house,  and  yet  I  don't  quite  care  to  destroy  it." 

*'I  don't  in  the  least  mind  taking  charge  of  it,"  an' 
swered  Wingfold. 


THE    SHEATH.  29I 


Why  was  it  that,  as  he  said  so,  the  face  of  Helen  Lin- 
gard  rose  before  his  mind's  eye  as  he  had  now  seen  it 
twice  in  the  congregation  at  the  Abbey — pale  with  an 
inward  trouble,  as  it  seemed,  large-eyed  and  worn— so 
changed,  yet  so  ennobled  ?  Even  then  he  had  felt  the 
deadening  effect  of  its  listlessness,  and  had  had  to  turn 
away  lest  it  should  compel  him  to  feel  that  he  was  but 
talking  to  the  winds,  or  into  a  desert  where  dwelt  no 
voice  of  human  response.  Why  should  he  think  of  her 
now  ?  Was  it  that  her  troubled,  pallid  face  had  touched 
him — had  set  something  near  his  heart  a-trembling, 
whether  with  merely  human  sympathy  or  with  the  ten- 
derness of  man  for  suffering  woman  ?  Certainly  he  had 
never  till  then  thought  of  her  with  the  slightest  inter- 
est, and  why  should  she  come  up  to  him  now  ?  Could 
it  be  that —  Good  heaven  !  There  was  her  brother 
ill !  And  had  not  Faber  said  there  seemed  something 
unusual  about  the  character  of  his  illness  ?  What  could 
it  mean  ?     It  was  impossible,  of  course — but   yet — and 

yet — . 

"  Do  you  think,"  he  said,  "  we  are  in  any  way  bound 

to  inquire  further  into  the  affair  ?" 

"  If  I  had  thought  so,  I  should  not  have  left  it  unm.en- 
tioned  till  now,"  answered  Polwarth.  "  But  without  be- 
ing busybodies,  we  might  be  prepared  in  case  the  thing 
should  unfold  itself,  and  put  it  in  our  power  to  be  useful. 
Meantime  I  have  the  relief  of  the  confessional." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


INVITATION. 


S  Wingfold  walked  back  to  his  lodgings,  he 
found  a  new  element  mingling  with  the  va- 
ried matter  of  his  previous  inquiry.  Human 
suffering  laid  hold  upon  him — neither  as  his 
own  nor  as  that  of  humanity,  but  as  that  of  men  and 
women — known  or  unknown,  it  mattered  nothing  :  there 
were  hearts  in  the  world  from  whose  agony  broke  terri- 
ble cries,  hearts  of  which  sad  faces  like  that  of  Miss 
Lingard  were  the  exponents.  Such  hearts  might  be 
groaning  and  writhing  in  any  of  the  houses  he  passed, 
and,  even  if  he  knew  the  hearts,  and  what  the  vampire 
that  sucked  their  blood,  he  could  do  nothing  for  their 
relief.  Little  indeed  could  he  have  imagined  the  life  of 
such  a  comfort -guarded  lady  as  Miss  Lingard,  exposed 
to  the  intrusion  of  any  terror-waking  monster,  from  the 
old  ocean  of  chaos  into  the  quiet  flow  of  its  meadow- 
banked  river  !  And  what  multitudes  must  there  not  be 
in  the  world — what  multitudes  in  our  island  ;  how  many 
even  in  Glaston,  whose  hearts,  lacerated  by  no  remorse, 


INVITATION.  293 


overwhelmed  by  no  crushing  sense  of  guilt,  yet  knew 
their  own  bitterness,  and  had  no  friend  radiant  enough 
to  make  a  sunshine  in  their  shady  places  !  H.^  fell  into 
mournful  mood  over  the  troubles  of  his  rrice.  Al- 
ways a  kind-hearted  fellow,  he  had  not  been  used  to 
think  about  such  things  ;  he  had  had  troubles  cf  his 
own,  and  had  got  through  at  least  some  of  them  ;  peo- 
ple must  have  troubles,  else  would  they  grow  unendu- 
rable for  pride  and  insolence.  But  now  that  he  had  be- 
gun to  hope  he  saw  a  glimmer  somewhere  afar  at  the 
end  of  the  darksome  cave  in  which  he  had  all  at  once 
discovered  that  he  was  buried  alive,  he  began  also  to 
feel  how  wretched  those  must  be  who  were  groping  on 
without  even  a  hope  in  their  dark  eyes. 

If  he  had  never  committed  any  crime,  he  bad  yet 
done  wrong  enough  to  understand  the  misery  of  shame 
and  dishonor,  and  should  he  not  find  a  loving  human 
heart  the  heart  of  the  world,  would  rejoice — with 
what    rejoicing    might    then    be     possible     to    accept 

,  George  Bascombe's  theory,  and  drop  into  the  jaws  of 
darkness  and  cease.  How  much  more  miserable,  then, 
must  those  be  who  had  committed  some  terrible  crime, 
or  dearly  loved  one,  who  had  !  What  relief,  what  hope, 
what  lightening  for  them  !  What  a  breeding-nest  of  ver- 
miculate  cares  and  pains  was  this  human  heart  of  ours  I 

)  Oh!  surely  it  needed  some  refuge  !  If  no  saviour  had 
yet  come,  the  tortured  world  of  human  hearts  cried 
aloud  for  one  with  unutterable  groaning  !  What  would 
Bascombe  do  if  he  had  committed  a  murder  ?  Or  what 
could  he  do  for  one  who  had  ?     If  fable  it  were,  it  was 


294  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE 

at  least  a  need-invented  one — that  of  a  Saviour  to  whom 
any  one  might  go,  at  any  moment,  without  a  journey, 
without  letters  or  commendations  or  credentials  !  And 
yet  no  :  if  it  had  been  invented,  it  could  hardly  be  by 
any  one  in  the  need,  for  such  even  now  could  hardly  bj 
brought  to  believe  it.  Ill-bested  were  the  world  indeed 
if  there  were  no  one  beyond  whose  pardon  crime  could 
not  go  !  Ah!  but  where  was  the  good  of  pardon  if  still 
the  conscious  crime  kept  stinging  ?  and  who  would  wish 
one  he  loved  to  grow  callous  to  the  crime  he  had  com- 
mitted ?  Could  one  rejoice  that  his  guilty  friend  had 
learned  to  laugh  again,  able  at  length  to  banish  the  me- 
mory of  the  foul  thing?  Would  reviving  self-content 
render  him  pleasant  to  the  eyes,  and  his  company  pre- 
cious in  the  wisdom  that  springs  from  the  knowledge  of 
evil  ?  Would  not  that  be  the  moment  when  he  who  had 
most  assiduously  sought  to  comfort  him  in  his  remorse, 
would  first  be  tempted  to  withdraw  his  foot  from  his 
threshold  ?  But  if  thare  was  a  God — ^such  a  God  as,  ac- 
cording to  the  Christian  story,  had  sent  his  own  son  in- 
to the  world :  had  given  him  to  appear  among  us,  cloth- 
ed in  the  garb  of  humanity,  the  armor  that  can  be  pier- 
ced, to  take  all  the  consequences  of  being  the  god  of 
obedience  among  the  children  of  disobedience,  engulf- 
ing their  wrongs  in  his  infinite  forbearance,  and  winning 
th«m  back,  by  slow  and  unpromising  and  tedious  renew- 
al, to  the  heart  of  his  father,  surely  such  a  God  would  not 
have  created  them  knowing  that  some  of  them  would 
sin  sins  from  the  horror  of  which  in  themselves  all  his 
devotion  could  not  redeem  them  '     And  as  he  thought 


INVITATION.  295 


thus,  the  words  arose  in  his  mind,  "  Come  tento  inc,  all 
ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.' 
His  heart  filled.  He  pondered  over  them.  When  he 
got  home,  he  sought  and  found  them  in  the  book.  Did 
a  man  ever  really  utter  them  ?  If  a  man  did,  either  he 
Avas  the  most  presumptuous  of  mortals,  or  he  could  do 
what  he  said.  If  he  could,  then  to  have  seen  and  dis- 
trusted that  man,  Wingfold  felt,  would  have  been  to  de- 
stroy in  himself  the  believing  faculty  and  become  inca- 
pable of  trusting  forever  after.  And  such  a  man  must,  in 
virtue  of  his  very  innocence,  know  that  the  worst  weari- 
ness and  the  worst  load  is  evil  and  crime,  and  must 
know  himself  able,  in  full  righteousness,  with  no  jugglery 
of  oblivion  or  self-esteem,  to  take  off  the  heavy  load 
and  give  rest. 

"  And  yet,"  thought  the  curate,  not  without  self-re- 
proach, "  for  one  who  will  go  to  him  to  get  the  rest,  a 
thousand  will  ask.  How  can  he  then  do  it?  As  if  they 
should  be  fit  to  know  !" 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


A    SERMON    TO    HELEN. 


LL  the  rest  of  the  week  his  mind  was  full  of 
thoughts  like  these,  amidst  which  ever  arose 
the  suffering  face  of  Helen  Lingard,  bringing 
with  it  the  still  strengthening  suspicion  that 
behind  it  must  lay  some  oppressive,  perhaps  terri- 
ble, secret.  But  he  made  no  slightest  movement  to- 
wards the  discovery  of  it,  put  not  a  single  question  in 
any  direction  for  its  confirmation  or  dissolution.  He 
would  not  look  in  at  her  windows,  but  what  seeds  of 
comfort  he  could  find,  he  would  scatter  wide,  and  hope 
that  some  of  them  might  fall  into  her  garden. 

When  he  raised  his  head  on  the  Sunday  from  kneeling 
with  heart  honest,  devout,  and  neighborly,  in  the  pulpit 
before  the  sermon,  and  cast  his  eyes  round  his  congrega- 
tion, they  rested  first,  for  one  moment  and  no  more,  up- 
on the  same  pallid  and  troubled  countenance  whose  re- 
flection had  so  often  of  late  looked  out  from  the  magic 
mirror  of  his  memory  ;  the  next,  they  flitted  across  the 
satisfied,  healthy,  handsome,  clever  face  of  her  cousin. 


A    SERMON    TO    HELEN.  297 


behind  which  plainly  sat  a  conscience  well-to-do,  in  an 
easy-chair  ;  the  third,  they  saw  and  fled  the  peevish  au- 
tumnal visage  of  Mrs.  Ramshorn  ;  the  next,  they  roved  a 
little,  then  rested  on  the  draper's  good-humored  disk, 
on  the  white  forehead  of  which  brooded  a  cloud  of 
thoughtfulness.  Last  of  all  they  sought  the  free  seats, 
and  found  the  faces  of  both  the  dwarfs.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  Rachel's  there,  and  it  struck  him  that 
it  expressed  greater  suffering  than  he  had  read  in  it  be- 
fore. She  ought  rather  to  be  in  bed  than  in  church,  he 
thought.  But  the  same  seemed  the  case  with  her  uncle's 
countenance  also  ;  and  with  that  came  the  conclusion 
that  the  pulpit  was  a  wonderful  watch-tower  whence  to 
study  human  nature  ;  that  people  lay  bare  more  of  their 
real  nature  and  condition  to  the  man  in  the  pulpit  than 
they  know — even  before  the  sermon.  Their  faces  had 
fallen  into  the  shape  of  their  minds,  for  the  church  has 
an  isolating  as  well  as  congregating  power,  and  no  pass- 
ing emotion  moulds  them  to  an  evanescent  show.  When 
Polwarth  spoke  to  a  friend,  the  suffering  melted  in  issu- 
ing radiance  ;  when  he  sat  thus  quiescent,  patient  endu- 
rance was  the  first  thing  to  be  read  on  his  counte- 
nance. This  flashed  through  the  curate's  mind  in  the 
moments  ere  he  began  to  speak,  and  with  it  came  afresh 
the  feeling — one  that  is  yet  ought  not  to  be  sad— that 
no  one  of  all  these  hearts  could  give  summer  weather 
to  another.  The  tears  rose  in  his  eyes  as  he  gazed,  and 
his  heart  swelled  towards  his  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  if 
his  spirit  would  break  forth  in  a  torrent  of  ministering* 
tenderness  and  comfort.     Then  he  made  haste  to  spealf 


298  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

lest  he  should  become  unable.  As  usual  his  voice  trem- 
bled at  first,  but  rose  into  strength  as  his  earnestness 
found  way.     This  is  a  good  deal  like  what  he  said : 

*'  The  marvellous  man  who  is  reported  to  have  ap- 
peared in  Palestine,  teaching  and  preaching,  seems  to 
have  suffered  far  more  from  sympathy  with  the  inward 
sorrows  of  his  race  than  from  pity  for  tiieir  bodily  pains. 
These  last  could  he  not  have  swept  from  the  earth  with 
a  word  ?  and  yet  it  seems  to  have  been  mostly,  if  not 
indeed  always,  only  in  answer  to  prayer  that  he  healed 
them,  and  that  for  the  sake  of  some  deeper,  some  spiri- 
tual healing  that  should  go  with  the  bodily  cure.  It 
could  not  be  for  the  dead  man  whom  he  was  about  to 
call  from  the  tomb  that  his  tears  flowed.  What  source 
could  they  have  but  compassion  and  pitiful  sympathy 
for  the  sorrows  of  the  dead  man's  sisters  and  friends 
who  had  not  the  inward  joy  that  sustained  himself,  and 
the  thought  of  all  the  pains  and  heartaches  of  those  that 
looked  in  the  face  of  death — the  moanings  of  love-torn 
generations,  the  blackness  of  bereavement  that  had 
stormed  through  the  ever-changing  world  of  human 
hearts  since  first  man  had  been  made  in  the  image  of  his 
Father?  Yet  are  there  far  more  terrible  troubles  than 
this  death — which  I  trust  can  only  part,  not  keep  apart. 
There  is  the  weight  of  conscious  wrong-being  and 
wrong-doing :  that  is  the  gravestone  that  needs  to  be 
rolled  away  ere  a  man  can  rise  to  life.  Call  to  mind  how 
Jesus  used  to  forgive  men's  sins,  thus  lifting  from  their 
*  hearts  the  crushing  load  that  paralyzed  all  their  efforts. 
Recall  the  tenderness  with  which  he  received  those  from 


A   SERMON   TO    HELEN.  299 


whom  the  religious  of  his  day  turned  aside — the  repen- 
tant women  who  wept  sore-hearted  from  very  love,  the 
publicans  who  knew  they  were  despised  because  they 
were  despicable.  With  him  they  sought  and  found 
shelter.  He  was  their  saviour  from  the  storm  ot  human 
judgment  and  the  biting  frost  of  public  opinion,  even 
when  that  opinion  and  that  judgment  were  re-echoed  by 
the  justice  of  their  own  hearts.  He  received  them,  and 
the  life  within  them  rose  up,  and  the  light  shone — the 
conscious  light  of  life — despite  even  of  shame  and  self- 
reproach.  If  God  be  for  us  who  can  be  against  us  ?  In 
his  name  they  rose  from  the  hell  of  their  own  heart's  con- 
demnation, and  went  forth  to  do  the  truth  in  strength  and 
hope.  They  heard  and  believed  and  obeyed  his  words. 
And  of  all  words  that  ever  were  spoken,  were  ever 
words  gentler,  tenderer,  humbler,  lovelier — if  true,  or 
more  arrogant,  man-degradiijg,  God-defying, — if  false, 
than  these,  concerning  which,  as  his,  I  now  desire  to 
speak  to  you:  '  Co  jne  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are 
heavy-laden,  a?td  I  will  give  you  rest.  Take  my  yoke  upon 
you,  and  learit  of  me  ;  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart : 
and  ye  shall  find  rest  tmto  your  souls.  For  my  yoke  zs 
easy,  and  my  burden  is  light '  ? 

"  Surely  these  words,  could  they  but  be  heartily  be- 
lieved, are  such  as  every  human  heart  might  gladly  hear  ! 
What  man  is  there  who  has  not  had,  has  not  now,  or 
will  not  have  to  class  himself  amongst  the  weaiy  and 
heavy-laden  ?  Ye  who  call  yourselves  Christians  pro- 
fess to  believe  such  rest  is  to  be  had,  yet  how  many  of 
you  go  bowed   to   the  very  earth,  and  take  no  single 


300  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

step  towards  him  who  says  Come^  Hft  not  an  eye  to  see 
whether  a  face  of  mercy  may  not  be  looking  down  upon 
you  !  Is  it  that,  after  all,  you  do  not  believe  there  ever 
was  such  a  man  as  they  call  Jesus  ?  That  can  hardly 
be.  There  are  few  so  ignorant  or  so  wilfully  illogical 
as  to  be  able  to  disbelieve  in  the  existence  of  the  man,  or 
that  he  spoke  words  to  this  effect.  Is  it  then  that 
you  are  doubtful  concerning  the  whole  import  of  his  ap- 
pearance }  In  that  case,  were  it  but  as  a  doubtful  medi- 
cine, would  it  not  be  well  to  make  some  trial  of  the  offer 
made  }  If  the  man  said  the  words,  he  must  have  at  least 
believed  that  he  could  fulfil  them.  Who  that  knows  any 
thing  of  him  at  all  can  for  a  moment  hold  that  this  man 
spoke  what  he  did  not  believe.'*  The  best  of  the  Jews, 
who  yet  do  not  believe  in  him,  say  of  him  that  he  was  a 
good  though  mistaken  man.  Will  a  man  lie  for  the  pri- 
vilege of  being  desipsed  and  rejected  of  men,  a  man  of 
sorrows  and  acquainted  with  grief  }  What  but  the  con- 
fidence of  truth  could  have  sustained  him  when  he  knew 
that  even  those  who  loved  him  would  have  left  him  had 
they  believed  what  he  told  them  of  his  coming  fate  } 
But  then  :  believing  what  he  said,  might  he  not  have 
been  mistaken  ?  A  man  can  hardly  be  mistaken  as  to 
whether  he  is  at  peace  or  not — whether  he  has  rest  in 
his  soul  or  not.  Neither,  I  think,  can  a  man  well  be  mis- 
taken as  to  whence  comes  the  peace  he  possesses — as 
to  the  well  whence  he  draws  his  comfort.  The  miser 
knows  his  comfort  is  his  gold.  Was  Jesus  likely  to  be 
mistaken  when  he  supposed  himself  to  know  that  his 
Cjmfort  came  from  his  God  ?    Anyhow  he  believed  that 


A    SERMON    TO    HELEN.  30I 

his  peace  came  from  his  obedience — from  his  oneness 
with  the  will  of  his  Father.  Friends,  if  I  had  such 
peace  as  was  plainly  his,  should  I  not  know  well  whence 
it  came  ?  But  I  think  I  hear  some  one  say,  '  Doubtless 
the  good  man  derived  comfort  from  the  thought  of  his 
Father,  but  might  he  not  be  mistaken  in  supposing 
there  was  any  Father  ?'  Hear  me,  my  friends  :  I  dai-.e 
not  sa}'  I  know  there  is  a  Father.  I  dare  not  even  say  I 
think  ;  I  can  only  say  with  my  whole  heart  I  hope  we 
have  indeed  a  Father  in  heaven  ;  but  this  man  says  /le 
knows.  Am  /  to  say  he  does  not  know  }  Can  I,  who 
know  so  much  I  would  gladly  have  otherwise  in  myself, 
imagine  him  less  honest  than  I  am  ?  If  he  tells  me  he 
knows,  I  am  dumb  and  listen.  One  I  know :  there  is, 
outweighs  a  whole  creation  of  voices  crying  each  /  know 
not,  therefore  there  is  not.  And  observe  it  is  his  own,  his 
own  best  he  wants  to  give  them  ;  no  bribe  to  obedience 
to  his  will,  but  the  assurance  of  bliss  if  they  will  do  as  he 
does.  He  wants  them  to  have  peace — his  peace — peace 
from  the  same  source  whence  he  has  it.  For  what  does  he 
mean  by  Take  my  yoke  upon  you  and  learn  of  me  ?  He  does 
not  mean.  Wear  the  yoke  I  lay  upon  you,  and  obey  my  words. 
I  do  not  say  he  might  not  have  said  so,  or  that  he  does 
not  say  w'hat  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  other  times, 
but  that  is  not  what  he  says  here — that  is  not  the  truth 
he  would  convey  in  these  words.  He  means,  Take  upon 
you  the  yoke  I  wear  ;  learn  to  do  as  I  do,  who  subfnit  every 
thin  J  and  refer  every  thing  to  the  will  of  my  Father,  yea, 
have  my  will  only  in  the  carrying  out  of  his :  be  meek  and 
lowly  in  heart,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls.     With 


302  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

all  the  grief  of  humanity  in  his  heart,  in  the  face  of  the 
death  that  awaited  him,  he  yet  says,  For  my  yoke,  the 
yoke  I  wear,  is  easy,  the  burden  I  bear  is  light.  What  made 
that  yoke  easy— that  burden  light  ?  That  it  was  the  will 
of  the  Father.  If  a  man  answer,  'Any  good  man  who 
believed  in  a  God  might  say  as  much,  and  I  do  not  see 
how  it  can  help  me,'  my  reply  is,  that  this  man  says 
Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  rest — asserting  the  pow- 
er to  give  perfect  help  to  him  that  comes.  Does  all  this 
look  far  away,  my  friends,  and  very  unlike  the  things 
about  us  }  The  things  about  you  do  not  give  you  peace  ; 
from  something  different  you  may  hope  to  gain  it.  And 
do  not  our  souls  themselves  fall  out  with  their  sur- 
roundings, and  cry  for  a  nobler,  better,  more  beautiful 
life.> 

"  But  some  one  will  perhaps  say,  '  It  is  well  ;  but 
were  I  meek  and  lowly  in  heart  as  he  of  whom  you 
speak,  it  could  not  touch  my  trouble  :  that  springs  not 
from  myself,  but  from  one  whom  I  love.'  I  answer,  if 
the  peace  be  the  peace  of  the  Son  of  Man,  it  must  reach 
to  every  cause  of  unrest.  And  if  thou  hadst  it,  would  it 
not  then  be  next  door  to  thy  friend  }  How  shall  he 
whom  thou  lovest  receive  it  the  most  readily  but 
through  thee  who  lovest  him }  What  if  thy  faith 
should  be  the  next  step  to  his  }  Anyhow,  if  this  peace 
be  not  an  all-reaching  as  well  as  a  heart-filling  peace  ;  if  it 
be  not  a  righteous  and  a  lovely  peace,  and  that  in  despite 
of  all  surrounding  and  opposing  troubles,  then  it  is  not 
the  peace  of  God,  for  that  passeth  all  understanding; 
so  at  least  say  they  who  profess  to  know,  and  I  desire 


A    SERMON    TO    HELEN.  303 

to  take  them  at  their  word.  If  thy  trouble  be  a  trouble 
thy  God  can  not  set  right,  then  either  thy  God  is  not  the 
true  God  or  there  is  no  true  God,  and  the  man  who 
professed  to  reveal  him  led  the  one  perfect  life  in  virtue 
of  his  faith  in  a  falsehood.  Alas  !  for  poor  men  and  wo- 
men and  their  aching  hearts  ! — If^it  ofTend  any  of  you 
that  I  speak  of  Jesus  as  the  man  who  professed  to  reveal 
God,  I  answer  that  the  man  I  see,  and  he  draws  me  as 
with  the  strength  of  the  adorable  Truth  ;  but  if  in  him 
I  should  certainly  find  the  God  for  the  lack  of  whose 
peace  I  and  my  brethren  and  sisters  pine,  then  were 
heaven  itself  too  narrow  to  hold  my  exultation,  for  in 
God  himself  alone  could  my  joy  find  room. 

"  Come,  then,  sore  heart,  and  see  whether  his  heart 
can  not  heal  thine.  He  knows  what  sighs  and  tears  are. 
and  if  he  knew  no  sin  in  himself,  the  more  pitiful  must 
it  have  been  to  him  to  behold  the  sighs  and  tears  that 
guilt  wrung  from  the  tortured  hearts  of  his  brethren  and 
sisters.  Brothers,  sisters,  we  must  get  rid  of  this  misery 
of  ours.  It  is  slaying  us.  It  is  turning  the  fair  earth 
into  a  hell,  and  our  hearts  into  its  fuel.  There  stands 
the  man  who  says  he  knows  :  take  him  at  his  word.  Go 
to  him  who  says  in  the  might  of  his  eternal  tenderness 
and  his  human  pity.  Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and 
are  heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.  Take  my  yoke 
upon  you,  and  learn  of  me  ;  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in 
heart :  and  ye  shall  find  rest  unto  your  souls.  For  my  yoke 
is  easy,  and  my  burden  is  light. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 


A    SERMON    TO    HIMSELF. 


%;^^ONG  ere  he  thus  came  to  a  close,  Wingfold 
was  blind  to  all  and  every  individuality  be- 
fore him — felt  only  the  general  suffering  of 
the  human  soul,  and  the  new-born  hope  for  it 
that  lay  in  the  story  of  the  ideal  man,  the  human  God. 
He  did  not  see  that  Helen's  head  was  down  on  the  book- 
board.  She  was  sobbing  convulsively.  In  some  way 
the  word  had  touched  her,  and  had  unsealed  the  foun- 
tain of  tears,  if  not  of  faith.  Neither  did  he  see  the  curl 
on  the  lip  of  Bascombe,  or  the  glance  of  annoyance 
whicn,  every  now  and  then,  he  cast  upon  the  bent  head 
beside  him.  "  What  on  earth  are  you  crying  about  7 
It  is  all  in  the  way  of  his  business,  you  know,"  said  Bas- 
combe's  eyes,  but  Helen  did  not  hear  them.  One  or 
two  more  in  the  congregation  were  weeping,  and  here 
and  there  shone  a  face  in  which  the  light  seemed  to 
prevent  the  tears.  Pohvarth  shone  and  Rachel  wept. 
For  the  rest,  the  congregation  listened  only  with  vary- 
ing degrees  of  attention  and  indifiference.     The  larger 


A   SERMON   TO    HIMSELF.  305 

portion    looked  as    if  neither  Wingfold   nor  any  other 
body  ever  meant  any  thing — at  least  in  the  pulpit. 

The  moment  Wingfold  reached  the  vestry  he  hur- 
ried ofif  the  garments  of  his  profession,  sped  from  the 
Abbey,  and  all  but  ran  across  the  churchyard  to  his 
lodging.  There  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber, 
fearful  lest  he  should  have  said  more  than  he  had  yet  a 
right  to  say,  and  lest  ebbing  emotion  should  uncover  the 
fact  that  he  been  but  "  fired  by  the  running  of  his  own 
wheels,"  and  not  inspired  by  the  guide  of  "the  fiery- 
wheeled  throne,  the  cherub  Contemplation."  There, 
from  the  congregation,  from  the  church,  from  the  ser- 
mon, from  the  past  altogether,  he  turned  aside  his  face 
and  would  forget  them  quite.  What  had  he  to  do  with 
the  thing  that  was  done — done  with,  and  gone,  either 
into  the  treasury  or  the  lumber-room  of  creation  ?  To-- 
wards  the  hills  of  help  he  turned  his  face — to  the  sum- 
mits over  whose  tops  he  looked  for  the  day-spring  from 
on  high  to  break  forth.  If  only  Christ  would  come  to 
him  !  Do  what  he  might,  however,  his  thoughts  would 
wander  back  to  the  great  Gothic  gulf  into  which  he  had 
been  pouring  out  his  soul,  and  the  greater  human  gulfs 
that  opened  into  the  ancient  pile,  whose  mouths  were 
the  faces  that  hid  the  floor  beneath  them — until  at 
length  he  was  altogether  vexed  with  himself  for  being 
interested  in  what  he  had  done  instead  of  absorbed  in 
what  he  had  yet  to  do.  He  left,  therefore,  his  chamber, 
and  placed  himself  at  a  side-table  in  his  sitting-room, 
while  his  landlady  prepared  the  other  for  his  dinner. 
She,  too,  had  been  at  church  that  morning,  whence  it 


3o6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

came  that  she  moved  about  and  set  the  things  on  the 
table  with  unusual  softness,  causing  him  no  interrup- 
tion while  he  wrote  down  a  line  here  and  there  of  what 
afterwards  grew  into  the  following  verses — born  in  the 
effort  to  forget  the  things  that  were  behind,  and  reach 
forth  after  the  things  that  lay  before  him  : 

Yes,  master,  when  thou  comest  thou  shalt  find 

A  littje  faith  on  earth,  if  I  am  here  ! 
Thou  know'st  how  oft  I  turn  to  thee  my  mind, 

How  sad  I  wait  until  thy  face  appear  ! 

Hast  thou  not  ploughed  my  thorny  ground  full  sore^ 
And  from  it  gathered  many  stones  and  sherds  ? 

Plough,  plough  and  harrow  till  it  needs  no  more — 
Then  sow  thy  mustard-seed,  and  send  thy  birds* 

I  love  thee.  Lord  ;  and  if  I  yield  to  fears, 

Nor  trust  with  triumph  that  pale  doubt  defies, 

Remember,  Lord,  'tis  nigh  two  thousand  years. 
And  I  have  never  seen  thee  with  mine  eyes. 

And  when  I  lift  them  from  the  wondrous  tale. 
See,  all  about  me  hath  so  strange  a  show  ! 

Is  that  thy  river  running  down  the  vale  ? 

Is  that  thy  wind  that  through  the  pines  doth  blow? 

Gould'st  thou  right  verily  appear  again. 

The  same  who  walked  the  paths  of  Palestine, 

And  here  in  England  teach  thy  trusting  men. 

In  church  and  field  and  house,  with  word  and  sign? 


A    SERMON   TO    HIMSELF.  307 

Here  arc  but  lilies,  sparrows,  and  the  rest  ! 

My  hands  on  some  dear  proof  would  light  and  stay  J 
But  my  heart  sees  John  leaning  on  thy  breast, 

And  sends  them  forth  to  do  what  thou  dost  sav. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 


CRITICISM. 


XTRAORDINARY  young  man  !"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ramshorn  as  they  left  the  church,  with 
a  sigh  that  expressed  despair.  "  Is  he  an 
infidel  or  a  fanatic  ?  a  Jesuit  or  a  Socinian  ?" 
"  It  he  would  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  his  com- 
position," said  Bascombe  indifferently,  "  he  might  in 
time  make  of  himself  a  good  speaker.  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  there  are  not  the  elements  of  an  orator  in  him,  if  he 
would  only  reflect  a  little  on  the  fine  relations  between 
speech  and  passion,  and  learn  of  the  best  models  how 
to  play  upon  the  feelings  of  a  congregation.  I  declare  I 
don't  know  but  he  might  make  a  great  man  of  himself. 
As  long  as  he  don't  finish  his  sentences,  however,  jum- 
bles his  figures,  and  begins  and  ends  abruptly  without 
either  exordium  or  peroration,  he  needn't  look  to  make 
any  thing  of  a  preacher — and  that  seems  his  object." 

"  If  that  be  his  object,  he  had  better  join  the  Metho- 
dists at  once.  He  would  be  a  treasure  to  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Ramshorn. 


CRITICISM.  309 


"  That  is  not  his  object,  George.  How  can  you  say 
so  ?"  remarked  Helen  quietly,  but  with  some  latent  in- 
dignation, 

George  smiled  a  rather  unpleasant  smile,  and  held  his 
peace. 

Little  more  was  said  on  the  way  home.  Helen  went 
to  take  off  her  bonnet,  but  did  not  reappear  until  she 
was  called  to  their  early  Sunday  dinner. 

Now  George  had  counted  upon  a  turn  in  the  garden 
with  her  before  dinner,  and  was  annoyed — more,  it  is  true, 
because  of  the  emotion  which  he  rightly  judged  the 
cause  of  her  not  joining  him,  than  the  necessity  laid  on 
him  of  eating  his  dinner  without  having  first  unburden- 
ed his  mind  ;  but  the  latter  fact  also  had  its  share  in 
vexing  him. 

When  she  came  into  the  drawing-room  it  was  plain 
she  had  been  weeping  ;  but,  although  they  were  alone, 
and  would  probably  have  to  wait  yet  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore their  aunt  joined  them,  he  resolved  in  his  good  na- 
ture to  be  considerate,  and  say  nothing  till  after  dinner, 
lest  he  should  spoil  her  appetite.  When  they  rose  from 
the  table  she  would  have  again  escaped,  but  when 
George  left  his  wine  and  followed  her,  she  consented, 
at  his  urgent,  almost  expostulatory,  request,  to  walk 
once  round  the  garden  with  him. 

As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  windows,  he 
began— in  the  tone  of  one  whose  love  it  is  that  prompts 
rebuke — 

"  How  could  you,  my  dear  Helen,  have  so  little  care  of 
your  health,  already  so  much  shaken  with  nursing  your 


3IO  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

brother,  as  to  yield  your  mind  to  the  maundering  of 
that  silly  ecclesiastic,  and  allow  his  false  eloquence  to 
untune  your  nerves  !  Remember  your  health  is  the 
first  thing — positively  the^rs^  and  foremost  thing  to  be 
considered,  both  for  your  own  sake  and  that  of  your 
friends.     Without  health,  what  is  any  thing  worth  ?" 

Helen  made  no  answer,  but  she  thought  with  herself 
there  were  two  or  three  things  foi*  the  sake  of  which 
she  would  willingly  part  with  a  considerable  portion 
of  her  health.  Her  cousin  imagined  her  conscience- 
stricken,  and  resumed  with  yet  greater  confidence  : 

"  If  you  mies/  go  to  church,  you  ought  to  prepare 
yourself  beforehand  by  firmly  impressing  on  your  mind 
the  fact  that  the  whole  thing  is  but  part  of  a  system — 
part  of  a  false  system  ;  that  the  preacher  has  been 
brought  up  to  the  trade  of  religion,  that  it  is  his  business, 
and  that  he  must  lay  himself  out  to  persuade  people — 
himself  first  of  all  if  he  can,  but  anyhow  his  congrega- 
tion— of  the  truth  of  every  thing  contained  in  that  farra- 
go of  priestly  absurdities  called  the  Bible,  forsooth  ! 
as  if  there  were  no  other  book  worthy  to  be  mentioned 
beside  it.  Think,  for  a  moment,  how  soon,  were  it  not 
for  their  churches  and  prayers  and  music,  and  their  tom- 
foolery of  preaching,  the  whole  precious  edifice  would 
topple  about  their  ears,  and  the  livelihood,  the  means 
of  contentment  and  influence,  would  be  gone  from  so 
many  restless,  paltering  spirits  !  So  what  is  left  them 
but  to  play  upon  the  hopes  and  fears  and  diseased  con- 
sicences  of  men  as  best  they  can  !  The  idiot  !  To  tell 
a  man  when  he  is  hipped  to  come  tottome  I    Bah  !     Does 


CRITICISM.  311 


the  fool  really  expect  any  grown  man  or  woman  to  be- 
lieve in  his  or  her  brain  that  the  man  who  spoke  those 
I  words,  if  ever  there  was  a  man  who  spoke  them,  can  at 
this  moment,  annzdojm'ni" — George  liked  to  be  correct — 
"  1870,  hear  whatever  silly  words  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wing- 
fold  or  any  other  human  biped  may  think  proper  to  ad- 
dress to  him  with  his  face  buried  in  his  blankets  by  his 
bedside  or  in  his  surplice  over  the  pulpit  Bible  ? — not  to 
mention  that  they  would  have  you  believe,  or  be  damn- 
ed to  all  eternity,  that  every  thought  vibrated  in  the 
convolutions  of  your  brain  is  known  to  him  as  well  as 
to  yourself  I  The  thing  is  really  too  absurd  !  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  The  man  died — the  death  of  a  malefactor,  they 
say — and  his  body  was  stolen  from  his  grave  by  his  fol- 
lowers, that  they  might  impose  thousands  of  years  of  ab- 
surdity upon  the  generations  to  come  after  them.  And 
now,  when  a  fellow  feels  miserable,  he  is  to  cry  to  that 
dead  man  who  said  of  himself  that  he  was  meek  and 
lowly  in  heart,  and  straightway  the  poor  beggar  shall 
find  rest  to  his  soul  !  All  I  can  say  is  that  if  he  find 
rest  so,  it  will  be  the  rest  of  an  idiot  !  Believe  me, 
Helen,  a  good  Havana  and  a  bottle  of  claret  would  be 
considerably  more  to  the  purpose  ;  for  ladies,  perhaps 
rather  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  little  Beethoven  !"  Here  he 
laughed,  for  the  rush  of  his  eloquence  had  swept  away 
his  bad-humor.  "  But  really,"  he  went  on,  "the  whole 
thing  is  too  absutd  to  talk  about.  To  go  whining  after 
an  old  Jew  fable  in  these  days  of  progress  !  Why, 
what  do  you  think  is  the  last  discovery  about  light  ?" 
"  You  will  allow  this  much  in  excuse  for  their  being 


312  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

SO  misled,"  returned  Helen,  with  some  bitterness,  "that 
the  old  fable  pretends  at  least  to  provide  help  for  sore 
hearts  ;  and  except  it  be  vivisection,  I — " 

"  Do  be  serious,  Helen,"  interrupted  George.  "  I  don't 
object  to  joking,  you  know,  but  you  are  not  joking  in  a 
right  spirit.  This  matter  has  to  do  with  the  well-being, 
of  the  race  ;  and  we  must  think  of  others,  however  your 
Jew-gospel,  in  the  genuine  spirit  of  the  Hebrew  of  all 
time,  would  set  every  body  to  the  saving  of  his  own 
wind-bubble  of  a  soul.  Believe  me,  to  live  for  others  is 
the  true  way  to  lose  sight  of  our  own  fancied  sorrows." 

Helen  gave  a  deep  sigh.  Fancied  sorrows  ! — Yes, 
gladly  indeed  would  she  live  for  one  other  at  least  !  Nay, 
more — she  would  die  for  him.  But,  alas  !  what  would 
that  do  for  one  whose  very  being  was  consumed  with 
grief  ineffable  !  She  must  speak,  else  he  would  read  her 
heart. 

" There  are  real  sorrows,"  she  said.  "They  are  not 
all  fancied." 

"  There  are  very  few  sorrows,"  returned  George,  "  in 
which  fancy  does  not  bear  a  stronger  proportion  than 
even  a  woman  of  sense,  while  the  fancy  is  upon  her, 
will  be  prepared  to  admit.  I  can  remember  bursts  of 
grief,  when  I  was  a  boy,  in  which  it  seemed  impossible 
anything  should  ever  console  me;  but  in  one  minute  all 
would  be  gone,  and  my  heart,  or  my  spleen,  or  my  dia- 
phragm as  merry  as  ever.  Believe  that  all  is  well,  and 
you  will  find  all  will  be  well — very  tolerably  well,  that 
is,  considering." 

"  Considering  that  the  well-being  has  to  be  divided 


CRITICISM.  313 


and  apportioned  and  accommodated  to  the  various 
parts  of  such  a  huge  whole,  and  that  there  is  no  God  to 
look  after  the  business  !"  said  Helen,  who,  according  to 
the  state  of  the  tide  in  the  sea  of  her  trouble,  resented 
or  accepted  her  cousin's  teaching. 

Few  women  are  willing  to  believe  in  death.  Most  of 
them  love  life  and  are  faithful  to  hope  ;  and  I  much 
doubt  whether,  if  Helen  had  but  had  a  taste  of  trouble  to 
rouse  the  woman  within  her  before  her  cousin  conceived 
the  wish  of  making  her  a  proselyte,  she  would  have  turn- 
ed even  a  tolerably  patient  ear  to  his  instructions.  Yet 
it  is  strange  to  see  how  even  noble  women,  with  the  di- 
vine gift  of  imagination,  may  be  argued  into  unbelief  ii\ 
their  best  instincts  by  some  small  man,  as  commonplace 
as  clever,  who  beside  them  is  as  limestone  to  marble. 
The  knowing  craft  comes  creeping  up  into  the  shadow  of 
the  rich  galleon,  and  lo  !  with  all  her  bountiful  sails 
gleaming  in  the  sun,  the  ship  of  God  glides  off  in  the 
wake  of  the  felucca  to  the  sweltering  hollows  betwixt 
the  winds  ! 

"  You  perplex  me,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  Bascombe. 
"  It  is  plain  your  nursing  has  been  too  much  for  you. 
You  see  every  thing  with  a  jaundiced  eye." 

"  Thank  you,  cousin  George,"  said  Helen.  **  You  are 
even  more  courteous  than  usual." 

She  turned  from  him  and  went  into  the  house.  Bas- 
combe walked  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden  and  lighted 
his  cigar,  confessing  to  himself  that  for  once  he  could 
not  understand  Helen. — Was  it,  then,  only  that  he  was 
ignorant  of  the  awful  fact  that  lay  burrowing  in  her 


314  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

heart,  or  was  he  not  ignorant  also  of  the  nature  of  that 
heart  in  which  such  a  fact  must  so  burrow?  Was  there 
any  thing  in  his  system  to  wipe  off  that  burning,  tor- 
turing red  ?  "  Such  things  must  be  :  men  who  wrong 
society  must  suffer  for  the  sake  of  that  society."  But 
the  red  lay  burning  on  the  conscience  of  Helen  too,  and 
she  had  not  murdered  !  And  for  him  who  had,  he  gave 
society  never  a  thought,  but  shrieked  aloud  in  his 
dreams,  and  moaned  and  wept,  when  he  waked,  over 
the  memory  of  the  woman  who  had  wronged  him,  and 
whom  he  had,  if  Bascombe  was  right,  swept  out  of 
being  like  an  aphis  from  a  rose-leaf. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 


A    VANISHING    GLIMMER. 


ELEN  ran  upstairs,  dropped  on  her  knees  by 
her  brother's  bedside,  and  fell  into  a  lit  of 
sobbing  which  no  tears  came  to  relieve. 
"  Helen  !  Helen  !  if  5'ou  give  way  I  shall 
go  mad  !"  said  a  voice  of  misery  from  the  pillow. 
She  jumped  up  wiping  her  dry  eyes. 
"  What  a  wicked,  selfish,  bad  sister,  bad  nurse,  bad 
every  thing  I  am,  Poldie  !"  she  said,  her  tones  ascend- 
ing the  steps  of  vocal  indignation  as  she  spoke.  "  But 
shall  I  tell  you" — here  she  looked  all  about  the  chamber 
and  into  the  dressing-room  ere  she  proceeded  " — shall  I 
tell  you,  Poldie. what  it  is  that  makes  me  so — 1  don't  know 
what  ? — It  is  all  the  fault  of  the  sermon  I  heard  this 
morning.  It  is  the  first  sermon  I  ever  really  listened  to 
in  my  life— certainly  the  first  I  ever  thought  about  again 
after  I  was  out  of  the  church.  Somehow  or  other  of  late 
Mr.  Wingfold  has  been  preaching  so  strangely  !  but  this 
is  the  first  time  I  have  cared  to  listen.  Do  you  know 
he  preaches  as  if  he  actually  believed  the  things  he  was 


3l6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

saying,  and  not  only  that,  but  as  if  he  expected  to  persuade 
you  of  them  too  !  I  tiseci  io  think  all  clergymen  believed 
them,  but  I  doubt  it  now  more  than  ever,  for  Mr.Wingfold 
speaks  so  differently  and  looks  so  different.  I  never  saw 
any  clergyman  look  like  that ;  and  I  never  saw  such  a 
change  on  a  man  as  there  is  on  him.  There  must  be 
something  to  account  for  it.  Could  it  be  that  he  has 
himself  really  gone  to— as  he  says — and  found  rest — or 
something  he  hadn't  got  before  }  But  you  won't  know 
what  I  mean  except  I  tell  you  first  what  he  was  preaching 
about.  His  text  was:  Co77te  tmio  me,  all  ye  that  labor- 
and  are  heavy  laden  ; — a  common  enough  text,  5^ou  know. 
Poldie!  but  somehow  it  seemed  fresh  to  him,  and  he  made 
it  look  fresh  to  me,  for  I  felt  as  if  it  hadn't  been  intended 
for  preaching  about  at  all,  but  forgoing  straight  into 
people's  hearts  its  own  self  without  any  sermon.  I 
think  the  way  he  did  it  was  this  :  he  first  made  us  feel  the 
sort  of  person  that  said  the  words,  and  then  made  us  feel 
that  he  did  say  them,  and  so  made  us  want  to  see  what 
they  could  really  mean.  But  of  course  what  made  them 
so  different  to  me  was" — here  Helen  did  burst  into  tears, 
but  she  fought  with  her  sobs  and  went  on — "was — was 
— that  my  heart  is  breaking  for  you.  Poldie — for  I  shall 
never  see  you  smile  again,  my  darling  !" 

She  buried  her  lace  on  his  pillow  and  Leopold  uttered 
"  a  great  and  exceeding  bitter  cry."  Her  hand  was  on 
his  mouth  instantly,  and  her  sobs  ceased  while  the 
tears  kept  flowing  down  her  white  face. 

"  Just  think,  Poldie,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which  she 
«eemed  to  have  borrowed  in  her  need  from  some  one 


A   VANISHING   GLIMMER.  317 

else  " — just  think  a  moment  !  What  if  there  should  be 
some  help  in  the  great  wide  universe  somewhere,  for — 
as  wide  as  it  is — a  heart  that  feels  for  us  both,  as  my 
heart  feels  for  you,  Poldie  !  Oh  !  oh  !  wouldn't  it  be 
grand  !  Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  be  at  peace  again, 
Poldie  ?  If  there  should  be  somebody  somewhere  who 
could  take  this  gnawing  serpent  from  my  heart  !" — She 
pulled  wildly  at  her  dress. — "  '  Come  unto  me,'  he  said, 
'  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  yoti 
rest'     That's  what  he  said  : — oh  !  if  it  could  be  true  !" 

"  Surely  it  is — for  you,  best  of  sisters  !"  cried  Leopold  ; 
"  but  what  has  it  to  do  with  me  }  Nothing.  She  is  dead 
— I  killed  her.  Even  if  God  were  to  raise  her  to  life 
again,  he  could  not  make  it  that  I  didn't  drive  the  knife 
into  her  heart  !  Give  me  rest ! — why  there's  the  hand 
that  did  it !  O  my  God  !  my  God  !"  cried  the  poor 
youth,  and  stared  at  his  thin,  wasted  hand,  through 
which  the  light  shone  red,  as  at  a  conscious  evil  thing 
that  had  done  the  deed,  and  was  still  stained  with  its 
signs. 

"God  can't  ho.  very  angry  with  you,  Poldie,"  sobbed 
Helen,  feeling  about  blindly  in  the  dark  forest  of  her 
thoughts  for  some  herb  of  comfort,  and  oflering  any 
leaf  upon  which  her  hand  fell  first. 

"Then  he  ain't  fit  to  be  God  !"  cried  Leopold  fiercel3^ 
"  I  wouldn't  have  a  word  to  say  to  a  God  that  didn't  cut 
a  man  in  pieces  for  such  a  deed  !  O  Helen,  she  was  so 
lovely  ! — and  what  is  she  now  !" 

"  Surely  if  there  were  a  God,  he  would  do  something 
to  set  it  right  somehow  !     I  know  if  I  was  God,  Poldie, 


3l8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE, 

I  should  find  some  way  of  setting  you  up  again,  my  dar- 
ling.    You  ain't  half  as  bad  as  you  make  yourself  out." 

"  You  had  better  tell  that  to  the  jury,  Helen,  and  see 
how  they  will  take  it,"  said  Leopold  contemptuously. 

'•The  jury!"  Helen  almost  screamed.  What  do  you 
mean,  Poldie  .''" 

"  Well  !"  returned  Leopold,  in  a  tone  of  justification, 
but  made  no  further  answer  to  her  question.  "  All  God 
can  do  to  set  it  right,"  he  resumed,  after  a  pause,  "  is  to 
damn  me  for  ever  and  ever  as  one  of  the  blackest  crea- 
tures in  creation." 

"  That  I  don't  believe,  anyhow  !"  returned  Helen  with 
equal  vehemence  and  indefiniteness. 

And  for  the  first  time,  George  Bascombe's  teachings 
were  a  comfort  to  her.  It  was  all  nonsense  about  a  God. 
As  to  her  brother's  misery,  it  had  no  source  but  that  to 
which  Shakspeare  attributed  the  misery  of  Macbeth — 
and  who  should  know  better  than  Shakspeare  ? — the 
fear,  namely,  of  people  doing  the  like  to  himself  I — But 
straightway  thereupon — horrible  thought  ! — she  found 
herself — yes  !  it  was  iii  her — call  it  thought  or  call  it 
feeling,  it  was  hers  ! — she  found  herself  despising  her 
poor  crushed  brother  !  disgusted  with  him  !  turning 
from  him,  not  even  in  scorn  of  his  weakness,  but  in  an- 
ger at  what  he  had  brought  upon  her  ! — It  was  but  a 
J  flash  of  the  lightning  of  heil  :  one  glance  of  his  great, 
troubled,  appealing,  yet  hopeless  eyes,  vague  with  the 
fogs  that  steamed  up  from  the  Phlegethon  within  him, 
was  enough  to  turn  her  anger  at  him  into  hate  of  herself 
who  had  stabbed  his  angel  in  her  heart.    Then  in  herself 


^    VANISHING    GLIMMER.  319 


she  knew  that  all  murderers  are  not  of  Macbeth's  order, 
and  that  all  remorse  is  not  for  oneself. 

But  where  was  the  God  to  be  found  who  could  and 
might  help  in  the  wretched  case  ?  How  were  they  to 
approach  him  ?  Or  what  could  he  do  for  them  }  Were 
such  a  being  to  assure  Leopold  that  no  hurt  should 
come  to  him — even  that  he  thought  little  of  the  wrong 
that  he  had  done,  would  that  make  his  crushed  heart  be- 
gin to  swell  again  with  fresh  life  ?  would  that  bring 
back  Emmeline  from  the  dark  grave  and  the  worms  to 
the  sunny  earth  and  the  speech  of  men  }  And  whither, 
yet  farther,  he  might  have  sent  her,  she  dared  not 
think.  And  Leopold  was  not  merely  at  strife  with  him- 
self, but  condemned  to  dwell  with  a  self  that  was  loath- 
some to  him.  She  no  longer  saw  any  glimmer  of  hope 
but  such  as  lay  in  George's  doctrine  of  death.  If  there 
was  no  helper  who  could  clean  hearts  and  revive  the 
light  of  life,  then  welcome  gaunt  death  !  let  the  grim- 
mouthed  skeleton  be  crowned  at  every  feast  I 


CHAPTER  L. 


LET    US    PRAY. 


^^HAT  was  the  sole  chink  in  the  prison  where 
^  ^lo  these  two  sat  immured  alone  from  their  kind 
—  except,  indeed,  the  curate  might  know  of 
another. 

One  thing  Helen  had  ground  for  being  certain  of — ■ 
that  the  curate  would  tell  them  no  more  than  he  knew. 
Even  George  Bascombe,  who  did  not  believe  one  thing 
he  said,  counted  him  an  honest  man  !  Might  she  ven- 
ture to  consult  him,  putting  the  case  as  of  a  person 
who  had  done  very  wrong — say  stolen  money  or  com- 
mitted forgery  or  something  ?  Might  she  not  thus  gath- 
er a  little  honey  of  comfort  and  bring  it  home  to  Leo- 
pold ? 

Thinking  thus  and  thus  she  sat  silent ;  and  all  the 
time  the  suffering  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face,  look- 
ing for  no  comfort,  but  finding  there  all  they  ever  had 
of  rest. 

"Are  you  thinking  about  the  sermon,  Helen?"  he 
asked.  "  What  was  it  you  were  telling  me  about  it  just 
now  ?     Who  preached  it  ?" 


LET    US   PRAY.  32] 


"  Mr,  Wingfold,"  she  answered  listlessly. 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Wingfold  ?" 

"  Our  curate  at  the  Abbey?" 

"  What  sort  of  man  is  he  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  man  somewhere  about  thirty — a  straightfor- 
ward, ordinary  kind  of  man" 

"  Ah  !"  said  Leopold — then  added  after  a  moment — 
"I  was  hoping  he  might  be  an  old  man,  with  a  gray 
head,  like  the  brahmin  who  used  to  teach  me  Sanscrit. 
— I  wish  I  had  treated  him  better,  poor  old  fellow  !  and 
learned  a  little  more." 

"  What  does  it  matter  about  Sanscrit !  Why  should 
you  make  troubles  of  trifles  ?"  said  Helen,  whose  trials 
had  at  last  begun  to  undermine  her  temper. 

"  It  was  not  of  the  Sanscrit,  but  the  moonshee  I  was 
thinking,"  answered  Leopold,  mildly. 

"  You  darling  !"  cried  Helen,  already  repentant.  But 
wMth  the  revulsion  she  felt  that  this  state  of  things 
could  not  long  continue — she  must  either  lose  her  senses, 
or  turn  into  something  hateful  to  herself  ;  the  strain 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She  7;it^s^  speak  to 
somebody,  and  she  would  try  w^hether  she  could  not  ap- 
proach the  subject  with  Mr.  Wingfold. 

But  how  was  she  to  see  him  ?  It  would  be  awkward 
to  call  upon  him  at  his  lodgings,  and  she  must  sco  him 
absolutely  alone  to  dare  a  whisper  of  what  was  on  her 
mind. 

As  she  thus  reflected,  the  thought  of  what  people 
would  say,  were  it  remarked  that  she  contrived  to  meet 
the  curate,  brought  a  shadow  of  scorn  upon  her  face. 


322  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Leopold  saw  the  expression,  and,  sensitive  as  an  ailing 
woman,  said :  "  Helen,  what  have  I  done  to  make  you 
look  like  that  ?" 

"  How  did  I  look,  my  Poldie,"  she  asked,  turning  on 
him  eyes  like  brimming  wells  of  love  and  tenderness. 

"  Let  me  see,"  answered  Leopold ;  and  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought  replied,  "  as  Milton's  Satan  might  have 
looked  if  Mammon  had  counselled  him  to  m^ike  oflf  with 
the  crown-jewels  instead  of  declaring  war." 

"Ah,  Poldie!"  cried  Helen,  delighted  at  the  stray 
glance  of  sunshine,  and  kissing  him  as  she  spoke,  "  you 
must  really  be  getting  better  ! — I'll  tell  you  what  !"  she 
exclaimed  joyfully,  as  a  new  thought  struck  her:  "As 
soon  as  you  are  able,  we  will  set  out  for  New-York — to 
pay  uncle  Tom  a  visit  of  course  !  but  we  shall  never  be 
seen  or  heard  of  again.  At  New- York  we  will  change 
our  names,  cross  to  San  Francisco,  and  from  there  sail 
for  the  Sandwich  Islands.  Perhaps  we  may  be  able  to 
find  a  little  one  to  buy,  just  big  enough  for  us  two ;  and 
you  shall  marry  a  nice  native, " 

Her  forced  gaiety  gave  way.  She  burst  out  weeping 
afresh,  and  throwing  her  arms  round  him,  sobbed — 

"  Poldie,  Poldie  !  you  can  pray  :  cry  to  God  to  help  us 
somehow  or  other  ;  and  if  there  be  no  God  to  hear  us, 
then  let  us  die  together.  There  are  easy  ways  of  it,  Pol- 
die." 

"Thank  you  !  thank  you,  sister  dear  !"  he  answered, 
pressing  her  to  his  bosom  :  "  that  is  the  first  word  of  real 
comfort  you  have  spoken  to  me.  I  shall  not  be  afraid 
u  you  go  with  me." 


LET    US    PRAY.  323 


It  was  indeed  a  comfort  to  both  of  them  to  remember 
that  there  was  this  alternative  equally  to  the  gallows 
and  a  long  life  of  gnawing  fear  and  remorse.  But  it  was 
only  to  be  a  last  refuge  of  course.  Helen  withdrew  to 
the  dressing-room,  laid  herself  on  her  bed,  and  began  to 
compass  how  to  meet  and  circumvent  the  curate,  so  as 
by  an  innocent  cunning  to  wile  from  him  on  false  pre- 
tences what  spiritual  balm  she  might  so  gain  for  the 
torn  heart  and  conscience  of  her  brother.  There  was 
no  doubt  it  would  be  genuine,  and  the  best  to  be  had, 
seeing  George  Bascombe,  who  was  honesty  itself,  judged 
the  curate  an  honest  man.  But  how  was  it  to  be  done  ? 
She  could  only  see  one  way.  With  some  inconsistency, 
she  resolved  to  cast  herself  upon  his  generosity,  and 
yet  would  not  trust  him  entirely. 

She  did  not  go  down  stairs  again,  but  had  her  tea  with 
her  brother.  In  the  evening  her  aunt  went  out  to  visit 
some  of  her  pensioners,  for  it  was  one  of  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn's  clerical  duties  to  be  kind  to  the  poor — a  good 
deal  at  their  expense,  I  am  afraid — and  presently  George 
came  to  the  door  of  the  sick-room  and  begged  her  to  go 
down  and  sing  to  him.  Of  course,  in  the  house  of  a 
dean's  relict,  no  music  except  sacred  must  be  heard  on 
a  Sunday  ;  but  to  have  Helen  sing  it,  George  would  con- 
descend even  to  a  hymn  tune  ;  and  there  was  Handel, 
ior  whom  he  professed  a  great  admiration  !  What  mat- 
tered his  subjects  ?  He  could  but  compose  the  sort  of 
thing  the  court  wanted  of  him,  and  in  order  to  that,  had 
to  fuddle  his  brains  first,  poor  fellow  !  So  said  George, 
at  least. 


3:24  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

That  Leopold  might  not  hear  them  talking  outside 
his  door,  a  thing  which  no  invalid  likes,  Helen  went 
down  stairs  with  her  cousin  ;  but  although  she  had  of- 
ten sung  from  Handel  for  his  pleasure,  content  to  re- 
produce the  bare  sounds  and  caring  nothing  about  the 
/eelings  both  they  and  the  words  represented,  she.  posi- 
tively refused  this  evening  to  gratify  him.  She  must 
{.^o  back  to  Leopold.  She  would  sing  from  The  C?-eatiQn 
\i  he  liked,  but  nothing  out  of  The  Messiah  would  she 
or  could  she  sing. 

Perhaps  she  could  herself  hardly  have  told  why,  but 
George  perceived  the  lingering  influence  of  the  morn- 
ing's sermon,  and  more  vexed  than  he  had  ever  yet 
been  with  her,  for  he  could  not  endure  her  to  cherish  the 
least  prejudice  in  favor  of  what  he  despised,  he  said  he 
would  overtake  his  aunt,  and  left  the  house.  The  mo- 
ment he  was  gone,  she  went  to  the  piano,  and  began  to 
sing,  Coinfort ye.  When  she  came  to  Coine  tmto  me,  she 
broke  down.  But  with  sudden  resolution  she  rose,  and 
having  opened  every  door  between  it  and  her  brother, 
raised  the  top  of  the  piano,  and  then  sang.  Come  tinto 
me  as  she  had  never  sung  in  her  life.  Nor  did  she  stop 
there.  At  the  distance  of  six  of  the  wide  standing 
houses,  her  aunt  and  cousin  heard  her  singing  Thou 
didst  not  leave,  \}\\h  the  tone  and  expression  of  a  pro- 
phetess— of  a  Maenad,  Geor2e  said.  She  was  still  sing- 
ing when  he  opened  the  door,  but  when  they  reached 
the  drawing-room  she  was  gone.  She  was  kneeling  be- 
side her  brother. 


CHAPTER  LL 


TWO    LETTERS. 


HE  next  morning  as  Wingfold  ate  his  break- 
fast by  an  open  window  looking  across  the 
churchyard,  he  received  a  letter  by  the  local 
post.  It  was  as  follows  : — 
"  Dear  Mr.  Wingfold,  I  am  about  to  take  an  unheard- 
of  liberty,  but  my  reasons  are  such  as  make  me  bold. 
The  day  may  come  when  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  you  them 
all.  Meantime  I  hope  you  can  help  me.  I  want  very 
much  to  ask  your  counsel  upon  a  certain  matter,  and  I 
can  not  beg  you  to  call,  for  my  aunt  knows  nothing  of  it. 
Could  you  contrive  a  suitable  way  of  meeting  ?  You 
may  imagine  my  necessity  is  grievous  when  I  thus  ex- 
pose myself  to  the  possible  bitterness  of  my  own  after 
judgment.  But  I  must  have  confidence  in  the  man  who 
spoke  as  you  did  yesterday  morning.  I  am,  dear  Mr. 
Wingfold,  sincerely  yours,  Helen  Lingard. 

"  P.S. — I  shall  be  walking  along  Pine  Street  from  our 
')  end,  at  eleven  o'clock  to-morrow." 

The  curate  was  not  taken  with  a  great  surprise.  But 
something  like  fear  overshadowed  him  at  finding  his 
sermons  come  back  upon  him  thus.  Was  he,  an  unbe- 
lieving laborer,  to  go  reaping  with  his  blunt  and  broken 


326  THOMAS   WINGFOID,    CURATE. 

sickle  where  the  corn  was  ripest  !  But  he  had  no  time 
to  think  about  that  now.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and 
she  would  be  looking  for  her  answer  at  eleven.  He  had 
not  to  think  long,  however,  before  he  saw  what  seemed 
a  suitable  plan  to  suggest ;  whereupon  he  wrote  as  fol- 
lows.: 

"  Dear  Miss  Lingard,  I  need  not  say  that  I  am  entirely 
at  your  service.  But  I  am  doubtful  if  the  only  way  that 
occurs  to  me  will  commend  itself  to  you.  I  know  what 
I  am  about  to  propose  is  safe,  but  you  may  not  have 
sufficient  confidence  in  my  judgment  to  accept  it  as  such. 

"  Doubtless  you  have  seen  the  two  deformed  per- 
sons, an  uncle  and  niece,  named  Polwarth,who  keep  the 
gate  of  Osterfield  Park.  I  know  them  well,  and,  strange 
as  it  may  seem,  I  must  tell  you,  in  order  that  you  may 
partake  of  my  confidence,  that  whatever  change  you 
may  have  observed  in  my  public  work,  is  owing  to  the 
influence  of  those  two,  who  have  more  faith  in  God  than 
I  have  ever  met  with  before.  It  may  not  be  amiss  to 
mention  also  that,  although  poor  and  distorted,  they  are 
of  gentle  blood  as  well  as  noble  nature.  With  this  pre- 
amble, I  venture  to  propose  that  you  should  meet  me 
at  their  cottage.  To  them  it  would  not  appear  at  all 
strange  that  one  of  my  congregation  should  wish  to  see 
me  alone,  and  I  know  you  may  trust  their  discretion. 
But  while  I  write  thus  with  all  confidence  in  you  and  in 
them,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  none  in  myself.  I  feel 
both  ashamed  and  perplexed  that  you  should  imagine 
any  help  in  me.  Of  all  I  know,  I  am  the  poorest 
creature  to  give  counsel.     All  1  can  say  for  myself  is. 


TWO    LETTERS.  327 


that  I  think  I  see  a  glimmer  of  light,  and  light  is  light 
through  whatever  cranny,  and  into  whatever  povert}''- 
stricken  chamber  it  may  fall.  Whatever  I  see,  I  will 
say.  If  I  can  see  nothing  to  help  you,  I  will  be  silent. 
And  yet  I  may  be  able  to  direct  you  where  to  find  what 
I  can  not  give  you.  If  you  accept  my  plan,  and  will  ap- 
point day  and  hour,  I  shall  acquaint  the  Polwarths  with 
the  service  we  desire  of  tjiem.  Should  you  object  to  it, 
I  shall  try  to  think  of  another,  I  am,  dear  Miss  Lin- 
gard,  yours  very  truly,  Thomas  Wingfold." 

He  placed  the  letter  between  the  pages  of  a  pamphlet, 
took  his  hat  and  stick,  and  was  walking  dow^n  Pine 
Street  as  the  Abbey  clock  struck  eleven.  Midway  he 
met  Helen,  shook  hands  with  her,  and  after  an  indiffe- 
rent word  or  two,  gave  her  the  pamphlet,  and  bade  her 
good  morning. 

Helen  hurried  home.  It  had  required  all  her  self- 
command  to  look  him  in  the  face,  and  her  heart  beat 
almost  painfully  as  she  opened  the  letter. 

She  could  not  but  be  pleased — even  more  than  pleas- 
ed with  it.  If  the  secret  had  been  her  own,  she  thought 
she  could  have  trusted  him  entirely,  but  she  must  not 
expose  poor  Leopold. 

B}^  the  next  post,  the  curate  received  a  grateful  an- 
swer, appointing  the  time,  and  expressing  perfect  readi- 
ness to  trust  those  whom  he  had  tried. 

She  was  received  at  the  cottage-door  by  Rachel,  who 
asked  her  to  walk  into  the  garden,  where  Mr.  Wingfold 
was  expecting  her.  The  curate  led  her  to  a  seat  over- 
grown with  honeysuckle. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

ADVICE    IN    THE    DARK. 

T  was  some  moments  before  either  of  them 
spoke,  and  it  did  not  help  Wingfold  that  she 
sat  clouded  by  a  dark-colored  veil.  At 
length  he  said, 

"  You  must  not  fear  to  trust  me  because  I  doubt  my 
ability  to  help  you.  I  can  at  least  assure  you  of  my 
sympathy.  The  trouble  I  have  myself  had,  enables  me 
to  promise  you  that." 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  she  said,  from  behind  more  veils 
than  that  of  lace,  "  how  to  get  rid  of  a  haunting  idea  ?" 

"  That  depends  on  the  nature  of  the  idea,  I  should  im- 
agine," answered  the  curate.  "  Such  things  sometimes 
arise  merely  from  the  state  of  the  health,  and  there  the 
doctor  is  the  best  help." 

Helen  shook  her  head,  and  smiled  behind  her  veil  a 
grievous  smile.  The  curate  paused,  but  receiving  no 
assistance,  ventured  on  again. 

"  If  it  be  a  thought  of  something  past  and  gone,  for 
which  nothing  can  be  done,  I  think  activity  in  one's 
daily  work  must  be  the  best  aid  to  endurance." 


ADVICE    IX    THE   DARK.  329 


"  Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !"  sighed  Helen,  "  — when  one  has 
no  heart  to  endure,  and  hates  the  very  sunhght  ! — You 
wouldn't  talk  about  work  to  a  man  dying  of  hunger, 
would  you  ?" 

"  I'm  not  sure  about  that," 

"  He  wouldn't  heed  you." 

"  Perhaps  not." 

"  What  would  you  do  then  ?" 

"  Give  him  some  food,  and  try  him  again,  I  think." 

"  Then  give  me  some  food — some  hope,  I  mean,  and 
try  me  again.  Without  that,  I  don't  care  about  duty  or 
life  or  any  thing." 

"  Tell  me  then  what  is  the  matter  :  I  7nay  be  able  to 
hint  at  some  hope,"  said  Wingfold  very  gently.  "Do 
you  call  yourself  a  Christian  ?" 

The  question  would  to  most  people  have  sounded 
strange,  abrupt,  inquisitorial ;  but  to  Helen  it  sounded 
rot  one  of  them  all. 

"  No,"  she  answered. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  curate  a  little  sadly,  and  went  on. 
"  Because  then  I  could  have  said,  you  know  where  to 
go  for  comfort.  Might  it  not  be  well  however  to  try  if 
there  is  any  to  be  had  from  him  that  said  Come  unto  me 
and  I  iv ill  give  you  rest  f" 

"  I  can  do  nothing  with  that.  I  have  tried  and  tried  to 
pray,  but  it  is  of  no  use.  There  is  such  a  weight  on  my 
heart  that  no  power  of  .mine  can  lift  it  up.  I  suppose 
it  is  because  I  can  not  believe  there  is  any  one  hearing 
a  word  I  say.  Yesterday,  when  I  got  alone  in  the  park, 
1  prayed  aloud  ;  I  thought  that  perhaps  even  if  he  might 


330  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

not  be  able  to  read  what  was  in  my  heart,  he  might  be 
able  to  hear  my  voice.  I  was  even  foolish  enough  to 
wish  that  I  knew  Greek,  because  perhaps  he  would  un- 
derstand me  better  if  I  were  to  pray  in  Greek.  My  brain 
seems  turning.  It  is  no  use  !  There  is  no  help  any 
where  !" 

She  tried  hard  but  could  not  prevent  a  sob.  And  then 
came  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  Will  you  not  tell  me  something  about  it  ?"  said  the 
curate,  yet  more  gently.  Oh,  how  gladly  would  he  re- 
lieve her  heart  if  he  might  !  "  Perhaps  Jesus  has  be- 
gun to  give  you  help,  though  you  do  not  know  it  yet," 
he  said,  "  His  help  may  be  on  the  way  to  you,  or  even 
with  you,  only  you  do  not  recognize  it  for  what  it  is. 
T  have  known  that  kind  of  thing.  Tell  me  some  fact  or 
some  feeling  I  can  lay  hold  of.  Possibly  there  is  some- 
thing you  ought  to  do  and  are  not  doing,  and  that  is 
why  you  can  not  rest.  I  think  Jesus  would  give  no  rest 
except  in  the  way  of  learning  of  him." 

Helen's  sobs  ceased,  but  what  appeared  to  the  curate 
a  long  silence  followed.  A  length  she  said,  with  falter- 
ing voice  : 

"  Suppose  it  were  a  great  wrong  that  had  been  done, 
and  that  was  the  unendurable  thought  ?  Suppose,  I  say» 
that  was  what  made  me  miserable  .^" 

"  Then  you  must  of  course  make  all  possible  repara- 
tion," answered  Wingfold  at  once. 

•'  jBut  if  none  were  possible — what  then  ?" 

Here  the  answer  was  not  so  plain  and  the  curate  had 
to  think. 


ADVICE   IN    THE   DARK.  33 1 

"  At  least,"  he  said  at  length,  "  you  could  confess  the- 
wrong,  and  ask  forgiveness." 

"  But  if  that  were  also  impossible,"  said  Helen,  shud- 
dering inwardly  to  find  how  near  she  drew  to  the  edge 
of  the  awful  fact. 

Again  the  curate  took  time  to  reply. 

"  I  am  endeavoring  to  answer  your  questions  as  well 
as  I  can,"  he  said  ;  but  it  is  hard  to  deal  with  generali- 
ties. You  see  how  useless,  for  that  very  reason,  my  an- 
swers have  as  yet  been  !  Still  I  have  something  more 
to  say,  and  hesitate  only  because  it  may  imply  more 
confidence  than  I  dare  profess,  and  of  all  things  I  dread 
untruth.  But  I  am  honest  in  this  much  at  least,  that  I 
desire  with  true  heart  to  find  a  God  who  will  acknow- 
ledge me  as  his  creature  and  make  me  his  child,  and  if 
there  be  any  God  I  am  nearly  certain  he  will  do  so  ;  for 
surely  there  can  not  be  any  other  kind  of  God  than  the 
Father  of  Jesus  Christ  !  In  the  strength  of  this  much 
of  conscious  truth  I  venture  to  say — that  no  crime  can 
be  committed  against  a  creature  without  being  commit- 
ted also  against  the  creator  of  that  creature  ;  therefore 
surely  the  first  step  for  any  one  who  has  committed  such 
a  crime  must  be  to  humble  himself  before  God,  confess 
the  sin,  and  ask  forgiveness  and  cleansing.  If  there  is 
any  thing  in  religion  at  all  it  must  rest  upon  an  actual 
individual  communication  between  God  and  the  crea- 
ture he  has  made  ;  and  if  God  heard  the  man's  prayer 
and  forgave  him,  then  the  man  would  certainly  know  it 
in  his  heart  and  be  consoled — perhaps  by  the  gift  of  hu- 
mility." 


332  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"Then  you  think  confession  to  God  is  all  that  is  re- 
quired ?" 

"  If  there  be  no  one  else  wronged  to  whom  confession 
can  be  made.  If  the  case  were  mine — and  sometimes  I 
much  fear  that  in  taking  holy  orders  I  have  grievously 
sinned — I  should  then  do  just  as  I  have  done  with  re- 
gard to  that — cry  to  the  living  power  which  I  think  ori- 
ginated me,  to  set  the  matter  right  for  me." 

"  But  if  it  could  not  be  set  right  ?" 

"Then  to  forgive  and  console  me." 

"Alas  !  alas  !  thathe  will  not  hear  of.  He  would  ra- 
ther be  punished  than  consoled.  I  fear  for  his  brain. 
But  indeed  that  miyht  be  well," 

She  had  gone  much  farther  than  she  had  intended  ; 
but  the  more  doubtful  help  became,  the  more  was  she 
driven  by  the  agony  of  a  perishing  hope  to  search  the 
heart  of  Wingfold. 

Again  the  curate  pondered. 

"  Are  you  sure,"  he  said  at  length,  "  that  the  person 
of  whom  you  speak  is  not  neglecting  something  he 
ought  to  do — something  he  knows,  perhaps  ?" 

He  had  come  back  to  the  same  with  which  he  had 
started. 

Through  her  veil  he  saw  her  turn  deadly  white.  Ever 
since  Leopold  said  the  word  jury,  a  ghastly  fear  had 
haunted  Helen.  She  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart  and 
made  no  answer. 

"  I  speak  from  experience,"  the  curate  went  on,  "  from 
what  else  could  I  speak  ?  I  know  that  so  long  as 
we  hang  back  from  doing  what  conscience  urges,  there 


ADVICE    IN    THE   DARK.  333 

is  no  peace  for  us.  I  will  not  say  our  prayers  are  not 
heard,  for  Mr.  Polwarth  has  taught  me  that  the  most 
precious  answer  prayer  can  have  lies  in  the  growing 
strength  of  the  impulse  towards  the  dreaded  duty,  and 
in  the  ever  sharper  stings  of  the  conscience.  I  think  I 
asked  already  whether  there  were  no  relatives  to  whom 
reparation  could  be  made  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;"  gasped  Helen,  "  and  I  told  you  repara- 
tion was  impossible." 

Her  voice  had  sunk  almost  to  a  groan. 

"  But  at  least  confession — "  said  Wingfold — and  start- 
ed from  his  seat. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 


INTERCESSION. 


STIFLED  cry  had  interrupted  him.  Helen 
was  pressing  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth. 
She  rose  and  ran  from  him.  Wingfold  stood 
alarmed  and  irresolute.  She  had  not  gone 
many  steps,  however,  when  her  pace  slackened,  her  knees 
gave  way,  and  she  dropped  senseless  on  the  grass. 
Wingfold  ran  to  the  house  for  water.  Rachel  hastened 
to  her  assistance,  and  Polwarth  followed.  It  was  some 
time  before  they  succeeded  in  reviving  her. 

When  at  length  the  color  began  to  return  a  little  to 
her  cheek,  Polwarth  dropped  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 
Wingfold  in  his  ministrations  was  already  kneeling  on 
one  side  of  her,  and  Rachel  now  kneeled  on  the  other. 
Then  Polwarth  said,  in  his  low  and  husky,  yet  not  alto- 
gether unmelodious  voice, 

"  Life  eternal,  this  lady  of  thine  hath  a  sore  heart 
and  we  can  not  help  her.  Thou  art  Help,  O  mighty 
love.  They  who  know  thee  best  rejoice  in  thee  most. 
As  thy  sun  that  shines  over  our  heads,  as  thy  air  that 
flows  into  our  bodies,  thou  art  above,  around,  and  in  us; 


INTERCESSION.  335 


thou  art  in  her  heart  ;  oh,  speak  to  her  there  ;  let  her 
know  thy  will,  and  give  her  strength  to  do  it,  O  Father 
of  Jesus  Christ  !     Amen." 

When  Helen  opened  her  eyes,  she  saw  only  the  dark 
leaves  of  an  arbutus  over  her,  and  knew  nothing  be- 
yond a  sense  of  utter  misery  and  weakness,  with  an  im- 
pulse to  rise  and  run.  With  an  effort  she  moved  her 
head  a  little,  and  then  she  saw  the  three  kneeling  forms, 
the  clergyman  with  bowed  head,  and  the  two  dwarfs 
with  shining  upturned  faces  ;  she  thought  she  was  dead 
and  they  were  kneeling  about  her  corpse.  Her  head 
dropped  with  a  weary  sigh  of  relief,  she  lay  passive,  and 
heard  the  dwarf's  prayer.  Then  she  knew  that  she  was 
not  dead,  and  the  disappointment  was  bitter.  But  she 
thought  of  Leopold,  and  was  consoled.  After  a  few 
minutes  of  quiet,  they  helped  her  into  the  house,  and 
laid  her  on  a  sofa  in  the  parlor. 

••  Don't  be  frightened  dear  lady, "  said  the  little  wo- 
man ;  "  nobody  shall  come  near  you.  We  will  watch 
you  as  if  you  were  the  queen.  I  am  going  to  get  some 
tea  for  you." 

But  the  moment  she  left  the  room,  Helen  got  up. 
She  could  not  endure  a  moment  longer  in  the  place. 
There  was  a  demon  at  her  brother's  ear,  whispering  to 
him  to  confess,  to  rid  himself  of  his  torture  by  the  aid 
of  the  law  ;  she  must  rush  home  and  drive  him  away. 
She  took  her  hat  in  her  hand,  opened  the  door  softly, 
and  ere  Rachel  could  say  a  word,  had  flitted  through  the 
kitchen,  and  was  amongst  the  trees  on  the  opposite  side 
ci  the  road.     Rachel  ran  to  the  garden  to  her  father  and 


336  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Wingfold.     They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in 
silence. 

"  1  will  follow  her,"  said  Wingfold.  "  She  may  faint 
again.     If  she  does  I  shall  whistle." 

He  followed,  and  kept  her  in  sight  until  she  was  safe 
in  her  aunt's  garden. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  he  said,  returning  in  great 
trouble.  "  I  do  not  think  I  made  any  blunder,  but  there 
she  is  gone  in  tenfold  misery  !  I  wish  I  could  tell  you 
what  passed,  but  that  of  course  I  can  not." 

"  Of  course  not,"  returned  Polwarth.  "  But  the  fact 
of  her  leaving  you  so  is  no  sign  that  you  said  the  wrong 
thing, — rather  the  contrary.  When  people  seek  advice, 
it  is  too  often  in  the  hope  of  finding  the  adviser  side 
with  their  second  familiar  self,  instead  of  their  awful 
first  self,  of  which  they  know  so  little.  Do  not  be  anx- 
ious. You  have  done  your  best.  Wait  for  what  will 
come  next." 


CHAPTER  LIV. 


HELEN       ALONE. 


ELEN  tottered  to  a  little  summer-house  in  the 
garden,  which  had  been  her  best  retreat 
since  she  had  given  her  room  to  her  brother, 
and  there  seated  herself  to  regain  breath 
and  composure  ere  she  went  to  him.  She  had  sought 
the  door  of  Paradise,  and  the  door  of  hell  had  been 
opened  to  her  !  If  the  frightful  idea  which,  she  did  not 
doubt,  had  already  suggested  itself  to  Leopold,  should 
now  be  encouraged,  there  was  nothing  but  black  mad- 
ness before  her  !  Her  Poldie  on  the  scaffold  I  God  in 
heaven  !  Infinitely  rather  would  she  poison  herself  and 
him  !  Then  she  remembered  how  pleased  and  consoled 
he  had  been  w^hen  she  said  something  about  their  dying 
together,  and  that  reassured  her  a  little  :  no  ;  she  was 
certain  Leopold  would  never  yield  himself  to  public 
shame  I  But  she  must  take  care  that  foolish,  extrava- 
gant curate  should  not  come  near  him  !  There  was  no 
knowing  to  what  he  might  persuade  him  !  Poor  Poldie 
was  so  easily  led  by  any  show  of  nobility — any  thing 
that  looked  grand  or  self-sacrificing  ! 


338  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

Helen's  only  knowledge  of  guilt  came  from  the  pale 
image  of  it  lifted  above  her  horizon  by  the  refraction  of 
her  sympathy.  She  did  not  know,  perhaps  never  would 
understand,  the  ghastly  horror  of  conscious  guilt,  beside 
which  there  is  no  evil  else.  Agonies  of  injury  a  man 
may  endure,  and,  so  far  from  being  overwhelmed,  rise 
above  them  tenfold  a  man,  who,  were  he  to  awake  to 
the  self-knowledge  of  a  crime,  would  sink  into  a  heap  of 
ruin.  Then,  indeed,  if  there  be  no  God,  or  one  that  has 
not  an  infinite  power  of  setting  right  that  which  has 
gone  wrong  with  his  work,  then  indeed  welcome  the 
faith,  for  faith  it  may  then  be  called,  of  such  as  say  there 
is  no  hereafter  !  Helen  did  not  know  to  what  gulfs  of 
personal  shame,  nay,  to  what  summits  of  public  execra- 
tion, a  man  may  be  glad  to  flee  for  refuge  from  the 
fangs  of  home-born  guilt — if  so  be  there  is  any  refuge 
to  be  found  in  either.  And  some  kind  of  refuge  there 
does  seem  to  be.  Strange  it  is  and  true,  that  in  publi- 
city itself  lies  some  relief  from  the  gnawing  of  the  worm 
— as  if  even  a  cursing  humanity  were  a  barrier  of  pro- 
tection between  the  torn  soul  and  its  crime.  It  flees  to 
its  kind  for  shelter  from  itself.  Hence,  I  imagine,  in 
part,  may  the  coolness  of  some  criminals  be  accounted 
for.  Their  quietness  is  the  relief  brought  by  confession 
— even  confession  but  to  their  fellows.  Is  it  that  the 
crime  seems  then  lifted  a  little  from  their  shoulders, 
and  its  weight  shared  by  the  race  ? 

Helen  had  hoped  that  the  man  who  had  spoken  in 
public  so  tenderly,  and  at  the  same  time  so  powerfully, 
of  the  saving  heart  of  the  universe,  that  would  have  no 


HELEN   ALONE.  339 


divisions  of  pride,  no  scatterings  of  hate,  but  of  many 
would  make  one,  would  in  private  have  spoken  yet 
sweeter  words  of  hope  and  consolation,  which  she  might 
have  carried  home  in  gladness  to  her  sick-souled  bro- 
ther, to  comfort  and  strengthen  him — words  of  might  to 
allay  the  burning  of  the  poison  within  him,  and  make  ' 
him  feel  that  after  all  there  was  yet  a  place  for  him  in 
the  universe,  and  that  he  was  no  outcast  of  Gehenna. 
But  instead  of  such  words  of  gentle  might,  like  those  of 
the  man  of  whom  he  was  so  fond  of  talking,  he  had  only 
spoken  drearily  of  dut}'.  hinting  at  a  horror  that  would 
plunge  the  whole  ancient  family  into  a  hell  of  dishonor 
and  contempt !  It  did  indeed  show  what  mere  heartless 
windbags  of  effete  theology  those  priests  were  !  Skele- 
tons they  were,  and  no  human  beings  at  all  ! — Her  fa- 
ther ! — the  thought  of  him  was  distraction  !  Her  mother  ! 
Oh,  if  Leopold  had  had  her  mother  for  his  too,  instead 
of  the  dark-skinned  woman  with  the  flashing  eyes,  he 
would  never  have  brought  this  upon  them  !  It  was  all 
his  mother's  fault — the  fault  of  her  race — and  of  the 
horrible  drug  her  people  had  taught  him  to  take  !  And 
was  he  to  go  and  confess  it,  and  be  tried  for  it,  and 

be }    Great  God  ! — And  here  was  the  priest  actually 

counselling  what  was  worse  than  any  suicide  ! 

Suddenly,  however,  it  occurred  to  her  that  the  curate 
had  had  no  knowledge  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  had 
therefore  been  compelled  to  talk  at  random.  It  was  im- 
possible he  should  suspect  the  crime  of  which  her  bro- 
ther had  been  guilty,  and  therefore  could  not  know  the 
frightful  consequences  of  such  a  confession  as  he  had 


340  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

counselled.  Had  she  not  better  then  tell  him  all,  and 
so  gather  from  him  some  right  and  reasonable  advice  for 
the  soothing  of  the  agonies  of  her  poor  broken-winged 
angel  }  But  alas  !  what  security  had  she  that  a  man  ca- 
pable of  such  priestly  severity  and  heartlessness — her 
terrors  made  her  thus  inconsequent — would  not  himself 
betray  the  all  but  innocent  sufferer  to  the  vengeance  of 
justice  so-called  }  No  ;  she  would  venture  no  further. 
Sooner  would  she  go  to  George  Bascombe — from  whom 
she  not  only  could  look  for  no  spiritual  comfort,  but 
whose  theories  were  so  cruel  against  culprits  of  all 
sorts  !  Alas,  alas  !  she  was  alone  !  absolutely  alone  in 
the  great  waste,  death-eyed  universe  ! — But  for  a  man  to 
talk  so  of  the  tenderness  of  Jesus  Christ  and  then  serve 
her  as  the  curate  had  done — it  was  indeed  shameless  ! 
He  would  never  have  treated  a  poor  wretched  woman  like 
that ! — And  as  she  said  thus  to  herself,  again  the  words 
sounded  in  the  ear  of  her  heart :  "  Come  unto  me,  all  ye 
that  labor  and  are  heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  yoic  rest." 
Whence  came  the  voice  }  From  her  memory,  or  from 
that  inner  chamber  of  the  spirit  which  the  one  spirit-bear- 
ing spirit  keeps  for  his  own  in  every  house  that  he  builds 
— alas  so  long  in  most  human  houses  shut  away  from 
the  rest  of  the  rooms  and  forgotten,  or  recollected  with 
uneasiness,  as  a  lumber-closet  in  which  lie  too  many 
things  that  had  better  not  be  looked  into  ?  But  what 
matter  where  the  voice  that  said  them,  so  long  as  the 
words  were  true,  and  she  might  believe  them  ! — what- 
ever is  true  can  be  believed  of  the  true  heart. 

Ere  she    knew,   Helen  was  on  her  knees,  with   her 


HELEN   ALONE.  341 


head  on  the  chair,  yet  once  more  crying  to  the  hearer  of 
cries — possible  or  impossible  being  she  knew  not  in  the 
least,  but  words  reported  of  him  had  given  birth  to  the 
cry — to  help  her  in  her  dire  need. 

Instead  of  any  word,  or  thought  even,  coming  to  her 
that  might  be  fancied  an  answer,  she  was  scared  from  her 
knees  by  an  approaching  step — that  of  the  housekeeper 
come  to  look  for  her  with  the  message  from  her  aunt 
that  Leopold  was  more  restless  than  usual,  not  at  all  like 
himself,  and  she  could  do  nothing  with  him. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

A     HAUNTED      SOUL. 

ELEN  rose  and  hastened  to  her  brother,  with 
a  heart  of  lead  in  her  body. 

She  started  when  she  saw  him  ;  some 
change  had  passed  on  him  since  the  morn- 
ing !  Was  that  eager  look  in  his  eyes  a  fresh  access  of 
the  fever?  That  glimmer  on  his  countenance,  doubtful 
as  the  first  of  the  morning,  when  the  traveller  knows 
not  whether  the  light  be  in  the  sky  or  only  in  his  brain, 
did  look  more  like  a  dawn  of  his  old  healthful  radiance 
than  any  fresh  fire  of  madness  ;  but  at  the  same  time  he 
appeared  more  wasted  and  pinched  and  death-like  than 
she  had  yet  seen  him.  Or  was  it  only  in  her  eyes — was 
she  but  reading  in  his  face  the  agony  she  had  herself  gone 
through  that  day  ? 

"  Helen,  Helen  ;  "  he  cried  as  she  entered  the  room, 
"  come  here,  close  to  me." 

She  hastened  to  him,  sat  down  on  the  bedside,  took  his 
hand  and  looked  as  cheerfully  as  she  could,  yet  it  was 
but  the  more  woefully,  in  his  face. 


A    HAUNTED   SOUL.  343 


"  Helen,"  he  said  again,  and  he  spoke  with  a  strangle 
expression  in  his  voice,  for  it  seemed  that  of  hope,  "  I 
have  been  thinking  all  day  of  what  you  told  me  on  Sun- 
day !" 

"  What  was  that,  Poldie  !"  asked  Helen  with  a  pang 
of  fear. 

"  Why,  those  words  of  course — what  else  I  You  sang 
them  to  me  afterwards,  you  know.  Helen,  I  should  like 
to  see  Mr.  Wingfold.  Don't  you  think  he  might  be  able 
to  do  something  ?" 

"  What  sort  of  thing,  Poldie  ?"  she  faltered,  growing 
sick  at  heart. — Was  this  what  came  of  praying  !  she 
thought  bitterly. 

"  Something  or  other — I  don't  know  what  exactl}'," 
returned  Leopold. — "  Oh  Helen  !"  he  broke  out  with  a 
cry,  stifled  by  the  caution  that  had  grown  habitual  to 
both  of  them,  "  is  there  no  help  of  any  kind  anywhere  ? 
Surely  Mr.  Wingfold  could  tell  me  something — comfort 
me  somehow,  if  I  were  to  tell  him  all  about  it  !  I  could 
trust  the  man  that  said  such  things  as  those  you  told 
me.  That  I  could  ! — Oh  !  I  wish  I  hadn't  run  away,  but 
had  let  them  take  me  and  hang  me  I" 

Helen  felt  herself  growing  white.  She  turned  away 
and  pretended  to  search  for  something  she  had  dropped. 

"  I  don't  think  he  would  be  of  the  slightest  use  to  you," 
she  said,  still  stooping. 

And  she  felt  like  a  devil  dragging  the  soul  of  her 
brother  to  hell.  But  that  was  a  foolish  fancy,  and  must 
be  resisted  ! 

"  Not  if  I  told  him  everything  1"  Leopold  hissed  from 


344  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

between  his  teeth  in  the  struggle  to  keep  down  a 
shriek. 

"  No,  not  if  you  told  him  everything,"  she  answered, 
and  felt  like  a  judge  condemning  him  to  death. 

"  What  is  he  there  for  then  }"  said  Leopold  indig- 
nantly, and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall  and  moaned. 

Helen  had  not  yet  thought  of  asking  herself  whether 
her  love  to  her  brother  was  all  clear  love,  and  nowise 
mingled  with  selfishness — whether  in  the  fresh  horror 
that  day  poured  into  the  cup  that  had  seemed  already 
running  over,  it  was  of  her  brother  only  she  thought, 
or  whether  threatened  shame  to  herself  had  not  a  part 
in  her  misery.  But  as  far  as  she  was  aware,  she  was 
quite  honest  in  saying  that  the  curate  could  not  com- 
fort him — for  what  attempt  even  had  he  made  to  com- 
fort her  ?  What  had  he  done  but  utter  commonplaces 
and  truisms  about  duty  ?  And  who  could  tell  but — 
indeed  was  she  not  certain  that  such  a  man,  bringing  the 
artillery  of  his  fanaticism  to  bear  upon  her  poor  boy's 
wild,  enthusiastic  temperament,  would  speedily  persuade 
him  to  make  a  reality  of  that  terrible  thing  he  had 
already  thought  of,  that  hideously  impossible  possibility 
which  she  dared  not  even  allow  to  present  itself  before 
her  imagination  .'*  So  he  lay  and  moaned,  and  she  sat 
crushed  and  speechless  with  despairing  misery. 

All  at  once  Leopold  sat  straight  up,  his  eyes  fixed  and 
flaming,  his  face  white :  he  looked  like  a  corpse 
possessed  by  a  spirit  of  fear  and  horror.  Helen's  heart 
swelled  into  her  throat,  the  muscles  of  her  face  con- 
tracted with  irresistible  rigor,  and  she  felt  it  grow  ex- 


A   HAUNTED    SOUL.  345 


actly  like  his,  while  with  wide  eyes  she  stared  at  him,  and 
he  stared  at  something  which  lest  she  also  should  see, 
she  dared  not  turn  her  head.  Surely,  she  thought  after- 
wards, she  must  have  been  at  that  moment  in  the  pre- 
sence of  something  unearthly  !  Her  physical  being  was 
wrenched  from  her  control,  and  she  must  simply  sit  and 
wait  until  the  power  or  influence,  whichever  it  might  be, 
should  pass  away.  How  long  it  was  ere  it  relaxed  its  hold 
she  could  not  tell ;  it  could  not  have  been  long,  she 
thought.  Suddenly  the  light  sank  from  Leopold's  eyes, 
his  muscles  relaxed,  he  fell  back  motionless,  apparently 
senseless,  on  the  pillow,  and  she  thought  he  was  dead. 
The  same  moment  she  was  free  ;  the  horror  had  departed 
from  her  own  atmosphere  too,  and  she  made  haste  to 
restore  him.  But  in  all  she  did  for  him,  she  felt  like 
the  executioner  who  gives  restoratives  to  the  wretch 
that  has  fainted  on  the  rack  or  the  wheel.  What  right 
had  she^  she  thought,  to  multiply  on  him  his  moments 
of  torture  ?  If  the  cruel  power  that  had  created  him  for 
such  misery,  whoever,  whatever,  wherever  he  might  be, 
chose  thus  to  torture  him,  was  she,  his  only  friend,  out* 
of  the  selfish  affection  he  had  planted  in  her,  to  lend 
herself  his  tool  ?  Yet  she  hesitated  not  a  single  moment 
in  her  ministrations. 

There  is  so  much  passes  in  us  of  which  our  conscious- 
ness takes  no  grasp, — or  but  with  such  a  flitting  touch  as 
scarcely  to  hand  it  over  to  the  memory — that  I  feel  en- 
couraged to  doubt  whether  ever  there  was  a  man  abso- 
lutely without  hope.  That  there  have  been,  alas  are 
many,  who  are  aware  of  no  ground  of  hope,  nay  even 


346  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

who  feel  no  glimmer  in  them  of  any  thing  they  can  call 
hope,  I  know  ;  but  I  think  in  them  all  is  an  underlying 
unconscious  hope.  I  think  that  not  one  in  all  the  world 
has  more  than  a  shadowy  notion  of  what  hopelessness 
means.  Perhaps  utter  hopelessness  is  the  outer  dark- 
ness. 

At  length  Leopold  opened  his  eyes,  gave  a  terrified 
glance  around,  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  and  drew  her 
down  upon  his  face. 

"  1  saw  her  I"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  as  if  it 
came  from  the  grave,  and  she  heard  it  in  her  heart. 

"  Nonsense,  dear  Poldie  !  it  was  all  fancy — nothing 
more,"  she  returned,  in  a  voice  almost  as  hollow  as  his  ; 
and  the  lightness  of  the  words  uttered  in  such  a  tone 
jarred  dismally  on  her  own  ear. 

"Fancy!"  he  repeated;  "  I  know  what  fancy  is  as  well 
as  any  man  or  woman  born  :  that  was  no  fancy.  She 
stood  there,  by  the  wardrobe — in  the  same  dress  ! — her 
face  as  white  as  her  dress  I  And — listen  ! — I  will  tell 
you — I  will  soon  satisV  5'ou  it  could  be  no  fancy." — Here 
'he  pushed  her  from  him  and  looked  straight  in  her  eyes. 
— "  I  saw  her  back  reflected  in  the  mirror  of  the  ward- 
robe door,  and" — here  the  fixed  look  of  horror  threat- 
ened to  return  upon  his  face,  but  he  went  on — "  listen, — 
there  was  a  worm  crawling  on  Jt,  over  her  lovely  white 
shoulder  !     Ugh  !     I  saw  it  in  the  mirror  !" 

His  voice  had  risen  to  a  strangled  shriek,  his  face  was 
distorted,  and  he  shook  like  a  child  on  the  point  of 
yelling  aloud  in  an  agony  of  fear.  Helen  clasped  his 
(ace  between  her  hands,  and  gathering  courage  from 


A   HAUNTED   SOUL.  347 


despair,  if  indeed  that  be  a  possible  source  of  courage, 
and  it  is  not  gathered  rather  from  the  hidden  hope  of 
wliich  I  speak,  and  the  Jove  that  will  cleave  and  not 
I  forsake,  she  set  her  teeth  and  said  : 

"  Let  her  come  then,  Poldie  !  I  am  with  you  and  I 
defy  her  I  She 'shall  know  that  a  sister's  love  is 
stronger  than  the  hate  of  a  jilt — even  if  you  did  kill  her. 
Before  God,  Poldie,  I  would  after  all  rather  be  you  than 
she.  Say  what  you  will,  she  had  herself  to  blame,  and 
'  don't  doubt  did  twenty  worse  things  than  you  did  when 
you  killed  her." 

But  Leopold  seemed  not  to  hear  a  word  she  said,  and 
lay  with  his  face  to  the  wall. 

At  length  he  turned  his  head  suddenly,  and  said, 

"  Helen,  if  you  don't  let  me  see  Mr.  Wingfold,  I  shall 
go  mad,  and  then  everything  will  come  out." 


CHAPTER    LVI. 

COMPELLED    CONFIDENCE. 

ELEN  flew  to  the  dressing-room  to  hide  her 
dismay,  and  there  cast  herself  on  the  bed. 
The  gray  fate  above,  or  the  awful  Demo- 
gorgon  beneath,  would  have  its  way!  Whe- 
ther it  was  a  living  Will  or  but  the  shadow  of  the 
events  it  seemed  to  order,  it  was  too  much  for  her.  She 
had  no  choice  but  yield.  She  rose  and  returned  to  her 
brother. 

"  I  am  going  to  find  Mr.  Wingfold,"  she  said  in  a 
hoarse  voice,  as  she  took  her  hat. 

"  Don't  be  long  then,  Helen,"  returned  Leopold.  I 
can't  bear  you  out  of  my  sight.  And  don't  let  aunt  come 
into  the  room.  She  might  come  again,  you  know,  and 
then   all  would  be  out. — Bring  him  with  you,  Helen." 

"  [  will,"  answered  Helen,  and  went. 

The  curate  might  have  returned  ;  she  would  seek  him 
first  at  his  lodging.  She  cared  nothing  about  appear- 
ances now. 

It  was  a  dull  afternoon.  Clouds  had  gathered,  and  the 
wind  was  chilly.     It  seemed  to  blow  out  of  the  church 


COMPELLED   CONFIDENCE.  349 

which  stood  up  cold  and  gray  against  the  sky,  fiUing  the 
end  of  the  street.  What  a  wretched,  horrible  world  it 
was  !  She  approached  the  church,  and  entered  the 
churchyard  from  which  it  rose  like  a  rock  from  the  Dead 
Sea,  a  type  of  the  true  church,  around  whose  walls  lie 
the  dead  bodies  of  the  old  selves  left  behind  by  those 
who  enter.  Helen  would  have  envied  the  dead,  who  lay 
so  still  under  its  waves  ;  but  alas  !  if  Leopold  was  right, 
they  but  roamed  elsewhere  in  their  trouble,  and  were 
no  better  for  dying. 

She  hurried  across,  and  reached  the  house,  but  Mr. 
Wingfold  had  not  yet  returned,  and  she  hurried  back 
across  it  again  to  tell  Leopold  that  she  must  go  farther 
to  find. him. 

The  poor  youth  was  already  more  composed  :  what 
will  not  the  vaguest  hope  sometimes  do  for  a  man  ! 
Helen  told  him  she  had  seen  the  curate  in  the  park, 
when  she  was  out  in  the  morning,  and  he  might  be  there 
still,  or  she  might  meet  him  coming  back.  Leopold 
only  begged  her  to  make  haste.  She  took  the  road  to 
the  lodge. 

She  did  not  meet  him,  and  it  was  with  intense  repug- 
nance that  she  approached  the  gate. 

"  Is  Mr.  Wingfold  here  ?"  she  asked  of  Rachel,  as  if 
she  had  never  spoken  to  her  before  ;  and  Rachel, 
turning  paler  at  the  sight  of  her,  answered  that  he  was 
in  the  garden  with  her  uncle,  and  went  to  call  him. 

The  moment  he  appeared,  she  said,  in  atone  rendered 
by  conflicting  emotions  inexplicable,  and  sounding 
almost  rude. 


350  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  Will  you  come  to  my  brother  ?  He  is  very  ill,  and 
wants  to  see  you." 

"  Certainly,"  returned  Wingfold,  "  I  will  go  with  you 
at  once." 

But  in  his  heart  he  trembled  at  the  thought  of  being 
looked  to  for  consolation  and  counsel — and  that  appa- 
rently in  a  case  of  no  ordinary  kind.  Most  likely  he 
would  not  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  behave  himself  ! 
How  different  it  would  be  if  with  all  his  heart  he  be- 
lieved the  grand  lovely  things  recorded  in  the  book  of 
his  profession  !  Then  indeed  he  might  enter  the  cham- 
bers of  sin  and  fear  and  guilt  with  the  innocent  confi- 
dence of  a  winged  angel  of  comfort  and  healing  !  But 
now  the  eyes  of  his  understanding  were  blinded  with 
the  ifs  and  buts  that  flew  swarming  like  black  muscce 
wherever  they  turned.  Still  he  would,  nay,  he  7nust  go 
and  do  his  best. 

They  walked  across  the  park  to  reach  the  house  by 
the  garden,  and  for  some  distance  they  walked  in  silence 
At  length,  Helen  said  : 

"  You  must  not  encourage  my  brother  to  talk  much, 
if  you  please  ;  and  5^ou  must  not  mind  what  he  says  : 
he  has  had  brain  fever,  and  sometimes  talks  strange- 
ly. But  on  the  other  hand  if  he  fancies  you  don't  be- 
lieve him,  it  will  drive  him  wild — so  you  must  take  care 
— please  Y' 

Her  voice  was  like  that  of  a  soul  trying  to  speak  with 
unproved  lips. 

•"*  Miss  Lingard,"  said  Wingfold,  slowly  and  quietly — 
and  if  his  voice  trembled,  he  only  was  aware  of  it,  "  I 


COMPELLED   CONFIDENCE.  351 

can  not  see  your  face,  therefore  you  must  pardon  me  if  I 
ask  you — are  you  quite  honest  with  me  ?" 

Helen's  first  feehng  was  anger.  She  held  her  peace 
for  a  time.     Then  she  said, 

"  So,  Mr.  Wingfold  ! — that  is  the  way  you  help  the 
helpless  !" 

"  How  can  any  man  help  without  knowing  what  has 
to  be  helped?"  returned  the  curate.  "The  very  being 
of  his  help  depends  upon  his  knowing  the  truth.  It 
is  very  plain  you  do  not  trust  me,  and  equally  impos- 
sible I  should  be  of  any  service  so  long  as  the  case  is 
such." 

Again  Helen  held  her  peace.  Resentment  and  dislike 
towards  himself  combined  with  terror  of  his  anticipated 
counsel  to  render  her  speechless. 

Her  silence  lasted  so  long  that  Wingfold  came  to  the 
resolution  of  making  a  venture  that  had  occurred  to 
him  more  than  once  that  morning.  Had  he  not  been 
convinced  that  a  soul  was  in  dire  misery,  he  would  not 
have  had  recourse  to  the  seeming  cruelty. 

*'  Would  this  help  to  satisfy  you  that,  whatever  my 
advice  may  be  worth,  at  least  my  discretion  may  be 
trusted  !"  he  said. 

They  were  at  the  moment  passmg  through  a  little 
thicket  in  the  park,  where  nobody  could  see  them,  and 
«  as  he  spoke,  he  took  the  knife-sheath  from  his  pocket, 
and  held  it  out  to  her. 

She  started  like  a  young  horse  at  something  dead  : 
she  had  never  seen  it,  but  the  shape  had  an  association. 
She  paled,  retreated  a  step,  with  a  drawing  back  of  her 


352  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

head  and  neck  and  a  spreading  of  her  nostrils,  stared 
for  a  moment,  first  at  the  sheath,  then  at  the  curate, 
gave  a  Httle  moan,  bit  her  under  Hp  hard,  held  out  her 
hand,  but  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  touch  the  thing,  and 
said 

"  What  is  it  ?     Where  did  you  find  it  ?" 

She  would  have  taken  it,  but  Wingfo.ld  held  it  fast. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  said  imperatively.  "  It  is  mine. 
I  lost  it." 

"  There  is  something  dark  on  the  lining  of  it,"  said 
the  curate,  and  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

She  let  go  her  hold.  But  almost  the  same  moment 
she  snatched  the  sheath  out  of  his  hand  and  held  it  to 
her  bosom,  while  her  look  of  terror  changed  into  one  of 
defiance.  Wingfold  made  no  attempt  to  recover  it.  She 
put  it  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  herself  up. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  was 
hard,  yet  trembled. 

She  felt  like  one  that  sees  the  vultures  above  him,  and 
lifts  a  one  movable  finger  in  defence.  Then  with  sud- 
den haughtiness  both  of  gesture  and  word  : 

"  You  have  been  acting  the  spy,  sir  !" 

*'  No,"  returned  the  curate  quietly.  "  The  sheath  was 
committed  to  my  care  by  one  whom  certain  facts  that 
had  come  to  his  knowledge — certain  words  he  had 
overheard — " 

He  paused.  She  shook  visibly,  but  still  would  hold 
what  ground  might  yet  be  left  her. 

"  Why  did  you  not  give  it  me  before  ?"  she  asked, 

"  In  the  public  street,  or  in  your  aunt's  presence?" 


COMPELLED   CONFIDENCE  353 


"  You  are  cruel  !"  she  panted.  Her  strength  was 
going.     "  What  do  you  know  ?" 

"  Nothing  so  well  as  that  I  want  to  serve  you,  and  you 
may  trust  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  ?" 

"  My  best  to  help  you  and  your  brother." 

"  But  to  what  end  ?" 

*'  To  any  end  that  is  right." 

"  But  how  ?     What  would  you  tell  him  to  do  ?" 

"You  must  help  me  to  discoverwhat  he  oughtto  do." 

"  Not — "  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands  and  dropping 
on  her  knees  before  him,  "  — you  zai'/l  not  tell  him  to 
give  himself  up  ?  Promise  me  you  will  not,  and  I  will 
tell  you  everything.  He  shall  do  any  thing  you  please 
but  that  !     Any  thing  but  that  !" 

Wingfold's  heart  was  sore  at  sight  of  her  agony.  He 
would  have  raised  her  with  soothing  words  of  sympathy 
and  assurance,  but  still  she  cried,  "  Promise  me  you  will 
not  make  him  give  himself  up." 

*'■  I  dare  not  promise  anything."  he  said.  "  I  7m^s^  do 
what  I  may  see  to  be  right.  Believe  me,  I  have  no  wish 
to  force  myself  into  your  confidence,  but  you  have  let 
me  see  that  you  are  in  great  trouble  and  in  need  of 
help,  and  I  should  be  unfaithful  to  my  calling  if  I  did 
not  do  my  best  to  make  5'ou  trust  me." 

A  pause  followed.  Helen  rose  despairingly,  and  they 
resumed  their  walk.  Just  as  they  reached  the  door  in 
the  fence  which  would  let  them  out  upon  the  meadow 
in  sight  of  the  Manor-house,  she  turned  to  him  and  said. 

"  I  will  trust  you,  Mr.  Wingfold.     I  mean,  I  will  take 


354  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

you  to  my  brother,  and  he  shall  do  as  he  thinks  pro- 
per." 

They  passed  out  and  walked  across  the  meadow  in 
silence.  In  the  passage  under  the  fence,  as  she  turned 
from  closing  the  door  behind  them,  she  stood  and  pressecP 
her  hand  to  her  side. 

"  O  Mr.  Wingfold,"  she  cried,  "  my  heart  will  break  ! 
He  has  no  one  but  me  !  No  one  but  me  to  be  mothe/ 
and  sister  and  all  to  him  !  He  is  not  wicked,  my  poo/ 
darling  !" 

She  caught  the  curate  by  the  arm  with  a  grasp  which 
left  its  mark  behind  it,  and  gazed  appealingly  into  hi? 
face  ;  in  the  dim  tomb-like  light,  her  wide-strained  eyes, 
white  agonized  countenance,  and  trembling,  roseles3 
lips,  made  her  look  like  one  called  back  from  death  "  to 
speak  of  horrors." 

"  Save  him  from  madness,"  she  said,  in  forced  and  un- 
natural utterance.  "  Save  him  from  the  remorse  gnaw- 
ing at  his  heart.  But  do  not,  do  not  counsel  him  to  %\yq 
himself  up." 

"  Would  it  not  be  better  you  should  tell  me  about  it," 
said  the  curate,  "  and  save  him  the  pain  and  excitement  }" 

•'  I  will  do  so,  if  he  wishes  it,  not  otherwise.— Come  ; 
we  must  not  stay  longer.  He  can  hardly  bear  me  out  of 
his  sight.  I  will  leave  you  for  one  moment  in  the  lib- 
rary, and  then  come  to  you.  If  you  should  see  my  aunt, 
not  a  word  of  all  this,  please.  All  she  knows  is  that  he 
has  had  brain-fever  and  is  recovering  only  very  slowly. 
I  have  never  given  her  even  a  hint  of  any  thing  worse. 
Indeed,  honestly,  Mr.  Wingfold,  I  am  not  certain  at  all 


COMPELLED    CONFIDENCE.  355 

he  did  do  what  he  will  tell  you.  But  there  is  his  misery 
all  the  same.  Do  have  pity  on  us,  and  don't  be  hard 
upon  the  poor  boy.     He  is  but  a  boy — only  twenty." 

"  May  God  be  to  me  as  I  am  to  him  !"  said  Wingfold 
solemnly. 

Helen  withdrew  her  entreating  eyes,  and  let  go  his 
arm.   They  went  up  into  the  garden  and  into  the  house. 

Afterwards,  Wingfold  was  astonished  at  his  own  calm- 
ness and  decision  in  taking  upon  him — almost,  as  it 
were,  dragging  to  him — this  relation  with  Helen  and 
her  brother.  But  he  had  felt  that  not  to  do  so  would  be 
to  abandon  Helen  to  her  grief,  and  that  for  her  sake  he 
must  not  hesitate  to  encounter  whatever  might  have  to 
be  encountered  in  doing  so. 

Helen  left  him  in  the  library,  as  she  had  said,  and 
there  he  waited  her  return  in  a  kind  of  stupor,  unable  to 
think,  and  feeling  as  if  he  were  lost  in  a  strange  and 
anxious  dream. 


CHAPTER   LVII. 

WILLING     CONFIDENCE. 

OME,"  said  Helen,  re-entering,  and  the  curate 

rose  and  followed  her. 
The  moment  he  turned  the  corner  of  the 

bed  and  saw  the  face  on  the  pillow,  he  knew 
in  hi^  soul  that  Helen  was  right,  and  that  that  was  no 
wicked  youth  who  lay  before  him — one,  however,  who 
might  well  have  been  passion-driven.  There  was  the 
dark  complexion  and  the  great  soft  yet  wild  eyes  that 
came  of  tropical  blood.  Had  not  Helen  so  plainly 
spoken  of  her  brother,  however,  he  would  have  thought 
he  saw  before  him  a  woman.  The  worn,  troubled,  ap- 
pealing light  that  overflowed  rather  than  shone  from 
his  eyes,  went  straight  to  the  curate's  heart. 

Wingfold  had  had  a  brother,  the  only  being  in  the 
world  he  had  ever  loved  tenderly;  he  had  died  young,  and 
a  thin  film  of  ice  had  since  gathered  over  the  well  of  his 
affections  ;  but  now  suddenly  this  ice  broke  and  vanish- 
ed, and  his  heart  yearned  over  the  suffering  youth.  He 
had  himself  been  crying  to  God,  not  seldom  in  sore 


WILLING   CONFIDENCE.  357 

trouble,  and  now,  ere.  as  it  seemed,  he  had  himself  been 
heard,  here  was  a  sad  brother  crying  to  him  for  help. 
Nor  was  this  all :  the  reading  of  the  gospel  story  had 
roused  in  his  heart  a  strange,  yet  most  natural  longing 
after  the  face  of  that  man  of  whom  he  read  such  lovely 
things,  and  thence,  unknown  to  himself,  had  come  a 
reverence  and  a  love  f  oi  his  kind,  which  now  first  sprung 
awake  to  his  consciousness  in  the  feeling  that  drew  him 
towards  Leopold. 

Softly  he  approached  the  bed,  his  face  full  of  tender- 
ness and  strong  pity.  The  lad,  weak  with  protracted 
illness  and  mental  tortures,  gave  one  look  in  his  face, 
and  stretched  out  his  arms  to  him.  How  could  the 
curate  give  him  but  a  hand  }  He  put  his  arms  round 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a  child. 

"  I  knew  you  would  come,"  sobbed  Lingard. 

"  What  else  could  I  do  but  come  ?"  returned  Wingfold. 

"  I  have  seen  you  somewhere  before, "  said  Lingard 
"  — in  one  of  my  dreams,  I  suppose  " 

Then,  sinking  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  he  added  : 

"  Do  you  know  3'ou  came  in  close  behind  /ter  ?  She 
looked  round  and  saw  you,  and  vanished  !" 

Wingfold  did  not  even  try  to  guess  at  his  meaning. 

"  Hush,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  I  must  not  let  you 
talk  wildly,  or  the  doctor  might  forbid  my  seeing  you." 

"I  am  not  talking  a  bit  wildly,"  returned  Leopold. 
"  I  am  as  quiet  as  a  mountain-top.  Ah  !  when  I  ^;«  wild 
— if  you  saw  me  then,  you  might  saj'  so  !" 

Wingfold  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  took  the 
thin,  hot  hand  next  him  in  his  own  firm,  cool  one. 


35^  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

"  Come  now,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  all  about  it.  Or  shall 
your  sister  tell  me  .'' — Come  here,  please.  Miss  Lingard." 

"  No,  no  I"  cried  Leopold  hastily  ;  "  I  will  tell  you 
myself.  My  poor  sister  could  not  bear  to  tell  it  you.  It 
would  kill  her. — But  how  am  I  to  know  you  will  not  get 
up  and  walk  out  the  moment  you  have  a  glimpse  of  what 
is  coming  ?" 

"  I  would  as  soon  leave  a  child  burning  in  the  fire  and 
go  out  and  shut  the  door,"  said  Wingfold. 

"  You  can  go  now,  Helen."  said  Lingard  very  qui- 
etly. "  Why  should  you  be  tortured  over  again  }  You 
needn't  mind  leaving  me.  Mr.  Wingfold  will  take  care 
of  me." 

Helen  left  the  room,  with  one  anxious  look  at  her 
brother  as  she  went. 

Without  a  moment's  further  delay,  Leopold  began, 
and  in  wonderfully  direct  and  unbroken  narrative,  told 
the  sad  evil  tale  as  he  had  formerly  told  it  to  his  sister, 
only  more  consecutively  and  quietly.  Possibly  his 
anxiety  as  to  how  the  listener  would  receive  it,  served, 
by  dividing  him  between  two  emotions,  to  keep  the  re- 
uttered  tale  from  overpowering  him  with  freshened 
vividness.  All  the  time,  he  kept  watching  Wingfold's 
face,  the  expressions  of  which  the  curate  felt  those  eyes 
were  reading  like  a  boot.  He  was  so  well  prepared 
however,  that  no  expression  of  surprise,  nc  reflex  of  its 
ghastfulness  met  Leopold's  gaze,  and  he  went  on  to  the 
end  without  a  pause  even.  When  he  had  finished,  both 
sat  silent,  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  Wingfold's 
beaming  with  compassion,   and   Lingard's  glimmering 


WILLING   CONFIDENCE.  359 

with   doubtful,  anxious  inquiry  and  appeal.     At  length 
Wingfold  said  :  ♦ 

"  And  what  do  you  think  I  can  do  for  3'ou  ?" 
"  I  don't  know.  I  thought  you  could  tell  me  something. 
I  can  not  live  like  this  !  If  1  had  but  thought  before  I 
did  it,  and  killed  myself  instead  of  her  !  It  would  have 
done  so  much  better  !  Of  course  I  should  be  in  hell 
now,  but  that  would  be  all  right,  and  this  is  all  wrong. 
I  have  no  right  to  be  lying  here  and  Emmeline  in  her 
grave.  I  know  I  deserve  to  be  miserable  forever  and 
ever,  and  I  don't  want  not  to  be  miserable— that  is  all 
right — but  there  is  something  in  this  wretchedness  that 
I  can  not  bear.  Tell  me  something  to  make  me  able  to 
endure  my  misery.  That  is  what  you  can  do  for  me.  I 
don't  want  to  go  mad.  And  what  is  worst  of  all,  I  have 
made  my  sister  miserable,  and  I  can't  bear  to  see  it.  She 
is  wasting  away  with  it.  And  besides  I  fancy  she  loves 
George  Bascombe — and  who  would  marry  the  sister  of 
a  murderer?  And  now  she  has  begun  to  come  to  me 
again — in  the  daytime — I  mean  Emmeline  ! — or  I  have 
begun  to  see  her  again — I  don't  know  which  ; — perhaps 
she  is  always  here,  only  I  don't  always  see  her — and  it 
don't  much  matter  which.  Only  if  other  people  were  to 
see  her  ! — While  she  is  there,  nothing  could  persuade  me 
I  do  not  see  her,  but  afterwards  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I 
did.  And  at  night  I  keep  dreaming  the  horrible  thing 
over  and  over  again  ;  and  the  agony  is  to  think  I  shall 
never  get  rid  of  it,  and  never  feel  clean  again.  To  be 
forever  and  ever  a  murderer  and  people  not  know  it  is 
more  than  I  can  bear/' 


CHAPTER    LVIII. 

THE    curate's    counsel. 

OT  seeing  yet  what  he  had  to  say,  but  knowing 
that  scintillation  the  smallest  is  light,  the 
curate  let  the  talk  take  its  natural  course, 
and  said  the  next  thing  that  came  to  him. 

"  How  do  you  feel  when  you  think  that  you  may  yet 
be  found  out  ?"  he  asked. 

"  At  first  I  was  more  afraid  of  that  than  of  any  thing 
else.  Then  after  that  danger  seemed  past,  I  was  afraid 
of  the  life  to  come.  That  fear  lett  me  next,  and  now  it 
is  the  thing  itself  that  .s  always  haunting  me.  I  often 
wish  they  would  come  and  take  me,  and  deliver  me 
from  myself.  It  would  be  a  comfort  to  have  it  all 
known,  and  never  need  to  start  again.  I  think  I  could 
even  bear  to  see  her  in  the  prison.  If  it  would  annihi- 
late the  deed,  or  bring  Emmeline  back,  I  can  not  tell  you 
how  gladly  I  would  be  hanged.  I  would,  indeed,  Mr. 
Wingfold.  I  hope  you  will  believe  me,  though  I  don't 
deserve  it." 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  said  the  curate,  and  a  silence  fol- 
lowed. 


THE  CURATE  S   COUNSEL. 


"  There  is  but  one  thing  I  can  say  with  confidence  at 
this  moment,"  he  resumed  :  "  it  is,  that  1  am  your  friend, 
and  will  stand  by  you.  But  the  first  part  of  friendship 
sometimes  is  to  confess  poverty,  and  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  of  the  very  things  concerning  which  I  ought  to 
know  most,  I  know  least.  I  have  but  lately  begun  to 
feel  after  God,  and  I  dare  not  say  that  I  have  found  him, 
but  I  think  I  know  now  where  to  find  hira.  And  I  do 
think,  if  we  could  find  him,  then  we  should  find  help. 
All  I  can  do  for  you  now  is  only  to  be  near  you,  and 
talk  to  you,  and  pray  to  God  for  you,  that  so  together 
we  may  wait  for  what  light  may  come. — Does  any- 
thing ever  look  to  you  as  if  it  would  make  you  feel 
better  ?' 

"  I  have  no  right  to  feel  better  or  take  comfort  from 
any  thing." 

"  I  am  not  sure  about  that. — Do  you  feel  any  better 
for  having  me  come  to  see  you  ?'' 

"  Oh  yes  !  indeed  I  do  !" 

"  Well,  there  is  no  wrong  in  that,  is  there  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  It  seems  a  sneaking  kind  of  tning  : 
s/t€h3.s  got  none  of  it.  My  sister  makes  excuses  forme, 
but  the  moment  I  begin  to  listen  to  them  I  only  feel 
the  more  horrid." 

"  I  have  said  nothing  of  that  kind  to  you." 

"  No,  sir." 

"  And  yet  you  like  to  have  me  here  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir,"  he  answered  earnestly. 

"And  it  does  not  make  you  think  less  of  your 
crime .''" 


362  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  No.  It  makes  me  feel  it  worse  than  ever  to  see  3'ou 
sitting  there,  a  clean,  strong,  innocent  man,  and  think 
what  I  might  have  been." 

•'  Then  the  comfort  you  get  from  me  does  you  no 
harm,  at  least.  If  I  were  to  find  my  company  made  you 
think  with  less  hatred  of  your  crime,  I  should  go  away 
that  instant." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Leopold  humbl}^  "O  sir!" 
he  resumed  after  a  little  silence,  "to  think  that  never 
more  to  all  eternity  shall  I  be  able  to  think  of  myself  as 
I  used  to  think  !" 

"  Perhaps  you  used  to  think  too  much  of  yourself," 
returned  the  curate.  "  For  the  greatest  fool  and  rascal 
in  creation  there  is  yet  a  worse  condition,  and  that  is 
not  to  know  it,  but  think  himself  a  respectable  man.  As 
the  event  proves,  though  you  would  doubtless  have 
laughed  at  the  idea,  you  were  then  capable  of  commit- 
ting a  murder.  I  have  come  to  see — at  least,  I  think  I 
have — that  except  a  man  has  God  dwelling  in  him,  he 
may  be,  or  may  become,  capable  of  any  crime  within  the 
compass  of  human  nature." 

"  I  don't  know  any  thing  about  God,"  said  Leopold. 
"  I  dare  say  I  thought  I  did  before  this  happened — before 
I  did  it,  I  mean,"  he  added  in  correction,  " — but  I  know 
now  that  I  don't,  and  never  did." 

•'  Ah  !  Leopold,"  said  the  curate,  "  think,  if  my  coming 
to  you  comforts  you, what  would  it  be  to  have  Him  who 
made  you  always  with  you  !" 

"  Where  would  be  the  good  }  I  daresay  he  might  for- 
give me,  if  I  were  to  do  this  and  that,  but  where  would 


THE   curate's   counsel.  363 

be  the  good  of  it  ?  It  would  not  take  the  thing  off  me 
one  bit." 

"  Ah  !  now,"  said  Wingfold,  "  I  fear  j'ou  are  thinking 
a  little  about  your  own  disgrace  and  not  only  of  the  bad 
you  have  done.  Why  should  you  not  be  ashamed  ? 
Would  3'ou  have  the  shame  taken  off  you  ?  Nay  ;  you 
must  humbly  consent  to  bear  it.  Perhaps  your  shame 
is  the  hand  of  love  washing  the  defilement  from  off  you. 
Ah,  let  us  keep  our  shame,  and  be  made  clean  from  the 
filth  !" 

"  1  don't  know  that  I  understand  you,  sir.  What  do 
you  mean  by  the  defilement }  Is  it  not  to  have  done 
the  deed  that  is  the  defilement.^" 

"  Is  it  not  rather  to  have  that  in  you,  a  part,  or  all  but 
a  part,  of  your  being,  that  makes  you  capable  of  doing 
it  }  If  you  had  resisted  and  conquered,  you  would  have 
been  clean  from  it ;  and  now,  if  you  repent  and  God 
comes  to  you,  you  will  yet  be  clean.  Again  I  say,  let  us 
keep  our  shame  and  be  made  clean  !  Shame  is  not  de- 
filement, though  a  mean  pride  persuades  men  so.  On 
the  contrary,  the  man  who  is  honestly  ashamed  has  be- 
gun to  be  clean." 

"  But  what  good  would  that  do  to  Emmeline  ?  It  can 
not  bring  her  up  again  to  the  bright  world  out  of  the 
dark  grave." 

"  Emmeline  is  not  in  the  dark  grave." 

"  Where  is  she  then  .''"  he  said  with  a  ghastly  look. 

"  That  I  can  not  tell.  I  only  know  that,  if  there  be  a 
God,  she  is  in  his  hands,"  replied  the  curate. 

The  youth  gazed  in  his  face  and  made    no  answer. 


364  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Wingfold  saw  that  he  had  been  wrong  in  trying  to  com- 
fort him  with  the  thought  of  God  dwelHng  in  him.  How 
was  such  a  poor  passionate  creature  to  take  that  for  a 
comfort  ?  How  was  he  to  understand  or  prize  the  idea, 
who  had  his  spiritual  nature  so  all  undeveloped.^  He 
would  try  another  way. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  seems  to  me  sometimes  the 
one  only  thing  1  want  to  help  me  out  of  all  my  difficul- 
ties ?" 

"  Yes,  please,  sir,"  answered  Leopold,  as  humbly  as  a 
child. 

"  I  think  sometimes,  if  I  could  but  see  Jesus  for  one 
moment, — " 

"  Ah  !"  cried  Leopold,  and  gave  a  great  sigh. 

"  Vou  would  like  to  see  him  then,  would  you.^" 

"O  Mr.  Wingfold!"      • 

"  What  would  you  say  to  him  if  you  saw  him  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  would  fall  down  on  my  face  and 
hold  his  feet  lest  he  should  go  away  from  me." 

"  Do  you  think  then  he  could  help  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  He  could  make  Emmeline  alive  again.  He 
could  destroy  what  I  had  done." 

"  But  still,  as  you  say,  the  crime  would  remain." 

"  But,  as  you  say,  he  could  pardon  that,  and  make  me 
that  I  would  never,  never  sin  again." 

"  So  you  think  the  story  about  Jesus  Christ  is  true  ."*" 

"  Yes.  Don't  you  ?"  said  Leopold  with  an  amazed, 
half-frightened  look. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  do. — Then  do  you  remember  what  he 
said  to  his  disciples  as  he  left  them  :  /  am  with  you  al- 


THE   curate's   counsel.  365 

ways  u7ito  the  end  of  the  world? — If  that  be  true,  then  he 
can  hear  you  just  as  well  now  as  ever  he  could.  And 
when  he  was  in  the  world,  he  said  ;  "Cofne  tintome,  all  ye 
that  labor  and  are  heavy-laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest.''' 
It  is  rest  you  want,  my  poor  boy — not  deliverance  from 
danger  or  shame,  but  rest — such  peace  of  mind  as  you 
had  when  you  were  a  child.  If  he  can  not  give  you  that 
I  know  not  where  or  how  it  is  to  be  had.  Do  not  waste 
time  in  asking  j^ourself  how  he  can  do  it  :  that  is  for 
him  to  understand,  not  3^ou — until  it  is  done.  Ask  him 
to  forgive  you  and  make  you  clean  and  set  things  right 
for  you.  If  he  will  not  do  it,  then  he  is  not  the  saviour 
of  men,  and  was  wrongly  named  Jesus." 

The  curate  rose.     Leopold  had  hid  his  face.     When 
he  looked  again  he  was  gone. 


CHAPTER    LIX. 


SLEEP. 


S  Wingfold  came  out  of  the  room,  which  was 
near  the  stair,  Helen  rose  from  the  top  of  it, 
where  she  had  been  sitting  all  the  time  he 
had  been  with  her  brother.  He  closed  the 
door  gently  behind  him,  and  stepped  softly  along  the 
landing.  A  human  soul  in  guilt  and  agony  is  an  awful 
presence,  but  there  was  more  than  that  in  the  hush  of 
the  curate  ;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  left  the  physician  of 
souls  behind  him  at  the  bedside  ;  that  a  human  being 
lay  on  the  rack  of  the  truth,  but  at  his  head  stood  one 
who  watched  his  throes  with  the  throbs  of  such  a  human 
heart  as  never  beat  in  any  bosom  but  his  own,  and  the 
executioners  were  angels  of  light.  No  wonder  if  with 
such  a  feeling  in  his  breast  Wingfold  walked  softly,  and 
his  face  glistened  !  He  was  not  aware  tliat  the  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes,  but  Helen  saw  them. 
"  You  know  all  !"  she  faltered. 

"  I  do.     Will  you  let  me  out  by  the  {,;ardcn  again  7     I 
wish  to  be  alone." 


SLEEP.  367 


She  led  the  way  down  the  stair,  and  walked  with  him 
through  the  garden.     Wingfold  did  not  speak. 

"  You  don't  think  very  badly  of  my  poor  brother,  do 
you,  Mr.  Wingfold  }"  said  Helen  meekly. 

"  It  is  a  terrible  fate,"  he  returned.  " — I  think  I  never 
saw  a  lovelier  disposition. — I  do  hope  his  mind  will  soon 
be  more  composed.  I  think  he  knows  where  alone  he 
can  find  rest. — I  am  well  aware  how  foolish  that  of  which 
I  speak  seems  to  some  minds.  Miss  Lingard  ;  but  when 
a  man  is  once  overwhelmed  in  his  own  deeds,  w.icn  they 
have  turned  into  spectres  to  mock  at  him.  when  he 
loathes  himself  and  turns  with  sickness  from  past,  pre- 
sent, and  future,  I  know  but  one  choice  left,  and  that  is 
between  the  death  your  friend  Mr.  Bascombe  preaches 
and  the  life  preached  by  Jesus,  the  crucified  Jew.  Into 
the  life  I  hope  your  brother  will  enter." 

"  1  am  so  glad  you  don't  hate  him  !" 

"  Hate  him  !     Who  but  a  demon  could  hate  him  ?" 

Helen  lifted  a  grateful  look  from  eyes  that  swam  in 
tears.  The  terror  of  his  possible  counsel  for  the  mo- 
ment vanished.  He  could  never  tell  him  to  give 
himself  up  ! 

"  But,  as  I  told  you,  I  am  a  poor  scholar  in  these  high 
nntters,"  resumed  the  curate,  "  and  I  want  to  bring  Mr. 
Polwarth  to  see  him." 

"  The  dwarf  !"  exclaimed  Helen,  shuddering  at  the  re- 
membrance of  what  she  had  gone  through  at  the  cot- 
tage. 

"  Yes.     That  man's  soul  is  as  grand  and  beautiful  and 


368  THOMAS    WINC-FOLD,    CURATE. 


patient  as  his  body  js  insif^nificant  and  troubled.  He  is 
the  wisest  and  best  man  I  have  ever  known." 

"  I  must  ask  Leopold,"  returned  Helen,  who,  the  better 
the  man  was  represented,  felt  the  more  jealous  and  fear- 
ful of  the  advice  he  might  give.  Her  love  and  her  con- 
science were  not  3'et  at  one  with  each  other. 

They  parted  at  the  door  from  the  garden,  and  she  re- 
turned to  the  sick-room. 

She  paused,  hesitating  to  enter.  All  was  still  as  the 
grave.  She  turned  the  handle  softly  and  peeped  in  : 
could  it  be  that  Wingfold's  bearing  had  communicated  to 
her  mind  a  shadow  of  the  awe  with  which  he  had  left 
the  place  where  perhaps  a  soul  was  being  born  again  } 
Leopold  did  not  move.  Terror  laid  hold  of  her  heart. 
She  stepped  quickly  in,  and  round  the  screen  to  the  side 
of  the  bed.  There,  to  her  glad  surprise,  he  lay  fast 
asleep,  with  the  tears  not  3^et  dried  upon  his  face.  Her 
heart  swelled  with  some  sense  unknown  before  :  was  it 
rudimentary  thankfulness  to  the  Father  of  her  spirit } 

As  she  stood  gazing  with  the  look  of  a  mother  over 
her  sick  child,  he  lifted  his  eyelids  and  smiled  a  sad 
smile. 

"  When  did  5^ou  come  into  the  room  }"  he  said. 

"  A  minute  ago,"  she  answered. 

"  I  did  not  hear  you,"  he  returned. 

"  No  ;  you  were  asleep." 

"  Not  I  !     Mr.  Wingfold  is  only  just  gone." 

"  I  have  let  him  out  on  the  meadow  since." 

Leopold  started,  looked  half  alarmed,  and  then  said, 

"  Did  God  make  me  sleep,  Helen  .''" 


SLEEP.  369 

She  did  not  answer.  The  light  of  a  new  hope  in  his 
eye,  as  if  the  dawn  had  begun  at  last  to  break  over  the 
dark  mountains,  was  already  reflected  from  her  heart. 

"  O  Helen  !"  he  said,  "  that  is  a  good  fellow — such  a 
good  fellow  !" 

A  pang  of  jealousy,  the  first  she  had  ever  felt,  shot  to 
her  heart ;  she  had  hitherto,  since  his  trouble,  been  all 
in  all  to  her  Leopold  !  Had  the  curate  been  a  man  she 
liked,  she  would  not,  perhaps,  have  minded  it  so  much. 

"  You  will  be  able  to  do  without  me  now,"  she  said 
sadly.  "  I  never  could  understand  taking  to  people  at 
first  sight !" 

"  Some  people  are  made  so,  I  suppose,  Helen.  I  know 
I  took  to  you  at  first  sight !  I  shall  never  forget  the 
first  time  I  saw  you,  when  I  came  to  this  country  a  lone- 
ly little  foreigner — and  you  a  great  beautiful  lady,  for 
such  you  seemed  to  me,  though  you  have  told  me  since 
you  were  only  a  great  gawfcy  girl — I  know  that  could 
never  have  been — you  ran  to  meet  me,  and  took  me  in 
your  arms  and  kissed  me.  I  was  as  if  I  had  crossed  the 
sea  of  death  and  found  paradise  in  your  bosom  !  I  am 
not  likely  to  forget  you  for  Mr.  Wmgfold,  good  and 
kind  and  strong  as  he  is  !  Even  she  could  not  make  me 
forget  you,  Helen.  But  neither  you  nor  I  can  do  with- 
out Mr.  Wingfold  any  more,  I  fancy.  I  wish  you 
liked  him  better  ! — but  you  will  in  time.  You  see,  he's 
not  one  to  pay  young  ladies  compliments,  as  I  have 
heard  some  parsons  do ;  and  he  may  be  a  little- 
no,  not  unpolished,  not  that — that's  not  what  I  mean- 
but  unornamental  in  his  manners  !     Only,  you  see-  " 


370  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


"  Only,  you  see,  Poldie,"  interrupted  Helen,  with  a 
smile,  a  rare  thing  between  them,  "  you  know  all  about 
him,  though  you  never  saw  him  before." 

"  That  is  true,"  returned  Leopold  ;  "  but  then  he  came 
to  me  with  his  door  open,  and  let  me  walk  in.  It  doesn't 
take  long  to  know  a  man  then.  He  hasn't  got  a  secret 
like  us,  Helen,"  he  added  sadly. 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?" 

"Much  that  he  said  to  you  from  the  pulpit  the  other 
day,  I  should  think." 

Then  she  was  right  !  For  all  his  hardness  and  want 
of  sympathy,  the  curate  had  yet  had  regard  to  her  en- 
treaties, and  was  not  going  to  put  any  horrid  notions 
about  duty  and  self-sacrifice  into  the  poor  bov's  head  ! 

"  He  is  coming  again  to-morrow,"  added  Leopold 
almost  gleefully,  "and  then  perhaps  he  will  tell  me 
more,  and  help  me  on  a  bit." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  he  wants  to  bring  a  friend  with 
him  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  can't  see  the  good  of  taking  more  people  into  our 
confidence." 

"  Why  should  he  not  do  what  he  thinks  best,  Helen  ? 
You  don't  interfere  with  the  doctor,  why  should  you 
with  him  ?  When  a  man  is  going  to  the  bottom  as  fast 
as  he  can  and  another  comes  diving  after  him,  it  isn't 
for  me  to  say  how  he  is  to  take  hold  of  me.  No,  He- 
len ;  when  I  trust,  I  trust  out  and  out." 

Helen  sighed,  thinking  how  ill  that  had  worked  with 
Emmeline. 


SLEEP.  371 


Ever  since  George  Bascombe  had  talked  about  the 
Polwarths  that  day  they  met  them  in  the  park,  she  had 
felt  a  kind  of  physical  horror  of  them,  as  if  they  were 
some  kind  of  unclean  creature  that  ought  not  to  be  in 
existence  at  all.  But  when  Leopold  uttered  himself 
thus,  she  felt  that  the  current  of  events  had  seized  her, 
and  that  she  could  only  submit  to  be  carried  along. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

DIVINE      SER V  ICE. 

^jm^__o^t  HE  next  day  the  curate  called  again  on  Lea 
pold.  But  Helen  happened  to  be  otherwise 
engaged  (or  a  few  minutes,  and  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn  to  be  in  the  sick-room  when  the  servant 
brought  his  name.  With  her  jealousy  of  Wingfold's 
teaching,  she  would  not  have  admitted  him,  but  Lingard 
made  such  loud  protest  when  he  heard  her  say  "  Not  at 
home,"  insisting  on  seeing  him,  that  she  had  to  give  way 
and  tell  the  maid  to  show  him  up.  She  /iad  no  notion, 
however,  of  leaving  him  alone  in  the  room  with  the  in- 
valid :  who  could  tell  what  absurd  and  extravagant  ideas 
he  might  not  put  into  the  boy's  head  !  He  might  make 
him  turn  monk,  or  Socinian,  or  Latter-day-Saint,  for  what 
she  knew  !  So  she  sat,  blocking  up  the  sole  small  window 
in  the  youth's  dark  dwelling  that  looked  eastward,  and 
damming  back  the  tide  of  the  dawn  from  his  diseased  and 
tormented  soul.  Little  conversation  was  therefore  pos- 
sible. Still  the  face  of  his  new  friend  was  a  comfort  to 
Leopold,  and  ere  he  left  him  they  had  managed  to  fix  an 


DIVINE   SERVICE, 


hour  for  next  day,  when  they  would  not  be  thus 
foiled  of  their  talk. 

That  same  afternoon  Wingfold  took  the  draper  to 
see  Polwarth. 

Rachel  was  lying  on  a  sofa  in  the  parlor  — a  poor  little 
heap,  looking  more  like  a  grave  disturbed  by  efforts  at 
a  resurrection  than  a  form  informed  with  humanity. 
But  she  was  cheerful  and  cordial,  receiving  Mr.  Drew 
and  accepting  his  sympathy  most  kindly. 

"  We'll  see  what  God  will  do  for  me,"  she  said  in  answer 
to  a  word  from  the  curate.  Her  whole  bearing,  now  as 
always,  was  that  of  one  who  perfectly  trusted  a  supreme 
spirit  under  whose  influences  lay  even  the  rugged  ma- 
terial of  her  deformed  dwelling. 

Polwarth  allowed  Wingfold  to  help  him  in  getting 
tea,  and  the  conversation,  as  will  be  the  case  where  all 
are  in  earnest,  quickly  found  the  right  channel. 

It  is  not  often  in  real  life  that  such  conversations  occur. 
Generally,  in  any  talk  worth  calling  conversation,  every 
man  has  some  point  to  maintain,  and  his  object  is  to  jus- 
tify his  own  thesis  and  disprove  his  neighbor's.  I  will 
allow  that  he  may  primarily  have  adopted  his  thesis  be- 
cause of  some  sign  of  truth  in  it,  but  his  mode  of  sup- 
porting it  is  generally  such  as  to  block  up  every  cranny 
in  his  soul  at  which  more  truth  might  enter.  In  the 
present  case,  unusual  as  it  is  for  so  many  as  three  truth- 
loving  men  to  come  thus  together  on  the  face  of  this 
planet,  here  were  three  simply  set  on  uttering  truth  they 
had  seen,  and  gaining  sight  of  truth  as  yet  veiled  from 
them. 


374  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

I  shall  attempt  only  a  general  impression  of  the  re- 
sult of  their  evening's  intercourse,  partly  recording  the 
utterances  of  Polwarth. 

"  I  have  been  trying  hard  to  follow  you,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth," said  the  draper,  after  his  host  had  for  a  while  had 
the  talk  to  himself,  "  but  I  can  not  get  hold  of  your  re- 
marks. One  moment  1  think  I  have  got  the  end  of  the 
clue,  and  the  next  find  myself  abroad  again.  Would 
you  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  divine  service  ?  for  I  think 
you  must  use  the  phrase  in  some  different  sense  from 
what  I  have  been  accustomed  to." 

"  Ah  !  I  ought  to  remember,"  said  Polwarth,  "  that 
what  has  grown,  familiar  to  my  mind  from  much  solita- 
ry thinking,  may  not  at  once  show  itself  to  another 
when  presented  in  the  forms  of  a  foreign  individuality. 
I  ought  to  have  premised  that,  when  I  use  the  phrase 
divine  service,  I  mean  nothing  whatever  belonging  to  the 
church  or  its  observances.  I  mean  by  it  what  it  ought 
to  mean — the  serving  of  God  ;  the  doing  of  something 
for  God.  Shall  I  make  of  the  church,  in  my  foolish  im- 
aginations, a  temple  of  idolatrous  worship  by  supposing 
that  it  is  for  the  sake  of  supplying  some  need  that  God 
has,  or  of  gratifying  some  taste  in  him,  that  I  there  listen 
to  his  word,  say  prayers  to  him,  and  sing  his  praises  ? 
Shall  I  be  such  a  dull  mule  in  the  presence  of  the  living 
Truth  ?  Or,  to  use  a  homely  simile,  shall  I  be  as  the  good 
boy  of  the  nursery-rhyme,  who,  seated  in  his  corner  of 
selfish  complacency,  regards  the  eating  of  his  pie  as  a 
virtuous  action,  enjoys  the  contemplation  of  it,  and 
thinks  what  a  pleasing  cjbject  he  thus  makes  of  himself 


DIVINE   SERVICE.  375 


to  his  parents?  Shall  I,  to  take  a  step  farther,  degrade 
the  sanctity  of  the  closet,  hallowed  in  the  words  of  Jesus, 
by  shutting  its  door  in  the  vain  fancy  of  there  doing 
something  that  God  requires  of  me  as  a  sacred  observance? 
Shall  I  foolishly  imagine  that  to  put  in  exercise  the 
highest  and  loveliest,  the  most  entrancing  privilege  of 
existence,  that  of  pouring  forth  my  whole  heart  into 
the  heart  of  him  who  is  accountable  for  me,  who  hath 
glorified  me  with  his  own  image — in  my  soul,  gentle- 
men, sadly  disfigured  as  it  is  in  my  body  ! — shall  I  say 
that  that  is  to  do  any  thing  for  God  ?  Was  I  serving  my 
father  when  I  ate  the  dinner  he  provided  for  me  ?  Am  1 
serving  my  God  when  I  eat  his  bread  and  drink  his 
wine  ?" 

"  But,"  said  Drew,  "  is  not  God  pleased  that  a  man 
should  pour  out  his  soul  to  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  doubtless  ;  but  what  would  you  think  of  a  child 
who  said,  '  I  am  very  useful  to  my  father,  for  when  I 
ask  him  for  any  thing,  or  tell  him  I  love  him,  it  gives 
him,  oh  !  such  pleasure  '  ?" 

"  I  should  say  he  was  an  unendurable  prig.  Belter 
he  had  to  be  whipped  for  stealing  I"  said  the  curate. 

"There  would  be  more  hope  of  his  future,"  returned 
Polwarth.  *'  Is  the  child,"  he  continued,  "  who  sits  by  his 
father's  knee  and  looks  up  into  his  father's  face,  serving 
that  father  because  the  heart  of  the  father  delights  to 
look  down  upon  his  child?  And  shall  the  moment  of 
my  deepest  repose  and  bliss,  the  moment  when  I  serve 
myself  with  the  very  life  of  the  universe,  be  called  a 
serving  of  my  God  ?     It  is  communion  with  God  ;  he 


376  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

holds  it  with  me,  else  never  could  I  hoki  it  with  him. 
I  am  as  the  foam-froth  upon  his  infinite  ocean,  but  of 
the  water  of  the  ocean  is  the  bubble  on  its  waves." 

Not  the  eyes  only,  but  the  whole  face  of  the  man, 
which  had  grown  of  a  pure,  semi-transparent  white- 
ness, appeared  to  Wingfold  to  emit  light. 

"When  my  child  would  serve  me,"  he  went  on,  "  he 
spies  out  some  need  I  have,  springs  from  his  seat  at  my 
knee,  finds  that  which  will  meet  my  necessity,  and 
is  my  eager,  happy  servant,  of  consequence  in  his  own 
eyes  inasmuch  as  he  has  done  something  for  his 
father.  His  seat  by  my  knee  is  love,  delight,  well-be- 
ing, peace — not  service,  however  pleasing  in  my  eyes. 
'  Why  do  you  seat  yourself  at  my  knee,  my  son  T  '  To 
please  you,  father.'  '  Nay,  then,  my  son  !  go  from  me, 
and  come  again  when  it  shall  be  to  please  thyself.' — 
'  Why  do  you  cling  to  my  chair,  my  daughter.^'  'Be- 
cause I  want  to  be  near  you,  father.  It  makes  me  so 
happy  !'  '  Come  nearer  still — come  to  my  bosom,  my 
child,  and  be  yet  happier.' — Talk  not  of  public  worship 
as  divine  service  :  it  is  a  mockery.  Search  the  proph- 
ets, and  you  will  find  the  observances,  fasts  and  sacrifices 
and  solemn  feasts,  of  the  temple  by  them  regarded  with 
loathing  and  scorn  just  because  by  the  people  they  were 
regarded  as  divine  service.'' 

"  Bat,"  said  Mr.  Drew,  while  Wingfold  turned  towards 
him  with  some  anxiety  lest  he  should  break  the  mood 
of  the  little  prophet,  "  I  can't  help  thinking  I  have 
you  ;  for  how  are  poor  creatures  like  us — weak,  blunder- 
ing creatures,  sometimes  most  awkward  when  best-inten- 


DIVINE   SERVICE.  377 


tioned — how  are  we  to  minister  to  a  perfect  God — perfect 
in  wisdom,  strength,  and  every  thing— of  whom  Paul  says 
that  he  is  not  worshipped  with  men's  hands  as  though  he 
needed  anything  ?  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  you  are 
fighting  merely  with  a  word.  Certainly,  if  the  phrase 
ever  was  used  in  that  sense,  there  is  no  meaning  of  the 
kind  attached  to  it  now :  it  stands  merely  for  the  forms 
of  public  worship." 

"  Were  there  no  such  thing  as  Divine  Service  in  the  true 
sense  of  the  word,  then  indeed  it  would  scarcely  be  worth 
while  to  quarrel  with  its  misapplication.  But  I  assert  that 
true  and  genuine  service  may  be  rendered  to  the  living 
God  ;  and  for  the  development  of  the  divine  nature  in 
man,  it  is  necessary  that  he  should  do  something  for  God. 
Nor  is  it  hard  to  discover  how  ;  for  God  is  in  every 
creature  that  he  has  made,  and  in  their  needs  he  is  needy, 
and  in  all  their  afflictions  he  is  alBicted.  Therefore 
Jesus  says  that  whatever  is  done  to  one  of  his  little  ones 
is  done  to  him.  And  if  the  soul  of  a  man  be  the  temple 
of  the  Spirit,  then  is  the  place  of  that  man's  labor — his 
shop,  his  counting-house,  his  laboratory — the  temple  of 
Jesus  Christ,  where  the  spirit  of  the  man  is  incarnate  in 
work.  Mr.  Drew  !" — here  the  gate-keeper  stood  up 
and  held  out  both  his  hands,  palms  upward,  towards 
the  draper  on  the  other  side  of  the  table — "  Mr.  Drew  ! 
your  shop  is  the  temple  of  your  service  where  the  Lord 
Christ,  the  only  image  of  the  Father,  is,  or  ought  to  be, 
throned  ;  your  counter  is,  or  ought  to  be,  his  altar  ;  and 
every  thing  thereon  laid,  with  intent'of  doing  as  well 
as  you  can  for  your  neighbor,  in  the  name  of  the  man 


378  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Christ  Jesus,  is  a  true  sacrifice  offered  to  him,  a  service 
done  to  the  eternal  creating  Love  of  the  universe." 

The  little  prophet's  head  as  he  stood  did  not  reach 
the  level  of  the  draper's  as  he  sat,  but  at  this  Drew 
dropped  his  head  on  his  hands  upon  the  table  as  if 
bowed  down  by  a  weight  of  thought  and  feeling  and 
worship. 

"  I  say  not,"  Polwarth  went  on,  "that  so  doing  you 
will  glow  a  rich  man,  but  I  say  that  by  so  doing  you 
will  be  saved  from  growing  too  rich,  and  that  you- will  be 
a  fellow-worker  with  God  for  the  salvation  of  his  world." 

"  1  must  live  ;  I  can  not  give  my  goods  away  !"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Drew  thinkingly,  as  one  that  sought  en- 
lightenment. 

"  That  would  be  to  go  direct  against  the  order 
of  his  world,"  said  Polwarth.  "  No  ;  a  harder  task  is 
yours,  Mr.  Drew — to  make  your  business  a  gain  to 
you,  and  at  the  same  time  to  be  not  only  what  is  com- 
monly counted  just,  but  interested  in,  and  careful  of,  and 
caring  for  your  neighbor,  as  a  servant  of  the  God  of 
bounty  who  giveth  to  all  men  liberally.  Your  calling  is 
to  do  the  best  for  your  neighbor  that  you  reasonably 
can." 

"  But  who  is  to  fix  what  is  reasonable  ?"  asked  Drew. 

"The  man  himself,  thinking  in  the  presence  of  Jesus 
Christ.     There  is  a  holy  moderation  which  is  of  God." 

"There  won't  be  many  fortunes — great  fortunes — 
made  after  that  rule,  Mr.  Polwarth." 

"  Very  few."      • 


DIVINE    SERVICE.  379 


"  Then  do  you  say  that  no  great  fortunes  have  been 
righteously  made  ?" 

"  If  righteously  means  after  the  fashion  of  Jesus  Christ — 
But  I  will  not  judge  :  that  is  for  the  God-enlightened 
conscience  of  the  man  himself  to  do,  not  for  his  neigh- 
bor's. Why  sliould.  I  be  judged  by  another's  man's 
conscience  ?  But  you  see,  Mr.  Drew — and  this  is  what 
I  was  driving  at — you  have  it  in  your  power  to  serve 
God  through  the  nee:ds  of  his  children  all  the  working 
day,  from  morning  to  night,  so  long  as  there  is  a  cus- 
torner  in  your  shop." 

"  I  do  think  you  are  right,  sir,"  said  the  linen-draper. 
"  I  had  a  glimpse  of  the  same  thing  the  other  night  my- 
self. And  yet  it  seems  as  if  you  spoke  of  a  purely  ideal 
state — one  that  could  not  be  realized  in  this  world." 

"  Purely  ideal  or  not,  one  thing  is  certain  :  it  will 
never  be  reached  by  one  who  is  so  indifferent  to  it  as  to 
believe  it  impossible.  Whether  it  may  be  reached  in 
this  world  or  not,  that  is  a  question  of  no  consequence  ; 
whether  a  man  has  begun  to  reach  after  it  is  of  the  utmost 
awfulness  of  import.  And  should  it  be  ideal,  which  I 
doubt,  what  else  than  the  ideal  have  the  followers  of  the 
ideal  man  to  do  with  ?" 

•'  Can  a  man  reach  any  thing  ideal  before  he  has  God 
dwelling  in  him,  filling  every  cranny  of  his  soul .'" 
asked  the  curate,  with  shining  eyes. 

"  Nothing,  I  do  most  solemnly  believe,"  answered  Pol- 
warth.  "  It  weighs  on  me  heavily  sometimes,"  he  re- 
sumed, after  a  pause,  "  to  think  how  far  all  but  a  few  are 
from  being  able  even  to  entertain  the  idea  of  the  indwell- 


380  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

ing  in  them  of  the  original  power  of  their  life.  True,  God 
is  in  every  man,  else  how  could  he  live  the  life  he  does 
live  }  But  that  life  God  keeps  alive  for  the  hour  when  he 
shall  inform  the  will,  the  aspiration,  the  imagination  of 
the  man.  When  the  man  throws  wide  his  door  to  the  Fa> 
ther  of  his  spirit,  when  his  individual  bemg  is  thus  sup- 
plemented— to  use  a  poor,  miserable  word — with  the  in- 
dividuality that  originated  it,  then  is  the  man  a  whole, 
healthy,  complete  existence.  Then  indeed,  and  then 
only,  will  he  do  no  wrong,  think  no  wrong,  love  perfect- 
ly, and  be  right  merry.  Then  will  he  scarce  think  of 
praying,  because  God  is  in  every  thought  and  enters 
anew  with  every  sensation.  Then  he  will  forgive  and 
endure,  and  pour  out  his  soul  for  the  beloved  who  yet 
grope  their  way  in  doubt  and  passion.  Then  every  man 
will  be  dear  ^nd  precious  to  him,  even  the  worst ;  for 
in  him  also  lies  an  unknown  yearning  after  the  same 
peace  wherein  he  rests  and  loves." 

He  sat  down  suddenW  and  a  deep  silence  filled  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


A    SHOP    IN    HEAVEN. 


i 

^^ 

NCLE,"  said  Rachel,  "may  I  read  your  vision 
of  the  shops  in  heaven?" 

"  Oh!  no,    Rachel.     You   are  not  able  to 

read  to-night,"  said  her  uncle  deprecatingly 

"  I  think  I  am,  uncle.     I  should  like  to  try.     It  will  let 

the  gentlemen  see  what  you  would  think  an  ideal  state  of 

things. — It  is  something,  Mr.  Wingfold,  my  uncle  once 

dictated  to  me,  and  I  wrote  down  just  as  he  said  it.     He 

can  always  do  better  dictating  than  writing,  but  this 

time  he  was  so  ill  with  asthma  that  he  could  not  talk 

much  faster  than  I  could  write ;  and  yet  to  be  so  ill  I 

never  saw  him   show  so  little   suffering  ;  his  thinking 

seemed  to  make  him  forget  it. — Mayn't  I  read  it,  uncle  ? 

I  know  the  gentlemen  would  like  to  hear  it." 

"  That  we  should,"  said  both  the  men  at  once. 

"  I  will  fetch  it  to  you,  then,"  said  Polwarth,  "  if  you 

will  tell  me  where  to  find  it." 

Rachel  gave  him  the  needful  directions,  and  presently 
he  brought  a  few  sheets  of  paper  and  handed  them  to  her. 


382  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  This  is  no  dream,  Mr.  Wingfold,"  he  said.  "It  is  some- 
thing I  had  thought  fairly  out  before  I  began  to  dictate 
it.  But  the  only  fit  form  I  could  find  for  it  was  that  of  a 
vision — like  the  Vision  of  Mirza,  you  know. — Now  read, 
Rachel,  and  I  will  hold  my  tongue." 

After  a  little  arranging  of  the  sheets,  Rachel  began. 
She  read  not  without  difficulty,  but  her  pleasure  in 
what  she  read  helped  her  through. 

"  *  "  And  now,"  said  my  guide  to  me,  "  I  will  bring  thee 
to  a  city  of  the  righteous,  and  show  thee  how  they  buy  and 
sell  in  this  the  kingdom  of  heaven.''  So  we  journeyed  a 
day  and  another  day  and  half  a  day,  and  1  was  weary  ere 
we  arrived  thither.  But  when  I  saw  the  loveliness  of  the 
place  and  drew  in  the  healing  air  thereof,  my  weariness 
vanished  as  a  dream  of  the  night,  and  I  said.  It  is  well, 
I  may  not  now  speak  of  the  houses  and  the  dress  and  the 
customs  of  the  dwellers  therein,  save  what  may  belong 
to  the  buying  and  selling  of  which  I  have  spoken. 
Gladly  would  I  tell  of  the  streams  that  went,  some 
noiselessly  gliding,  others  gurgling,  some  sweeping, 
some  rushing  and  roaring,  through  every  street,  all  is- 
suing from  one  right  plenteous  fountain  in  the  middle 
of  the  city,  so  that  the  ear  was  forever  filled  with  the 
sound  of  many  watefs  all  the  day,  ceasing  when  the 
night  came  that  silence  might  have  its  perfect  work  upon 
the  soul.  Gladly,  too,  would  I  tell  of  the  trees  and 
flowers  and  grass  thotgrew  in  every  street  along  the 
banks  of  the  rivers.     But  I  must  withhold. 

"  '  After  1  had,  I  know  not  for  how  long,  refreshed 
my  soul  with  what  it  was  thus  given  me  to  enjoy— for 


A    SHOP    IN    HEAVEN.  383 


in  all  that  country  there  is  no  such  thing  as  haste,  no  '^ 
darting  from  one  thing  to  another,  but  a  calm,  eternal 
progress  in  which  unto  the  day  the  good  thereof  is  suffi- 
cient— one  great  noon-day  my  conductor  led  me  into  a 
large  place  such  as  we  would  call  a  shop  here,  although 
the  arrangements  were  different,  and  an  air  of  stateliness 
dwelt  in  and  around  the  house.  It  was  filled  with  the 
loveliest  silken  and  woollen  stuffs,  of  all  kinds  and  col- 
ors, a  thousand  delights  to  the  eye — and  to  the 
thought  also,  for  here  was  endless  harmony  and  no  dis- 
cord. 

"  '  I  stood  in  the  midst,  and  my  guide  stood  by  me  in 
silence  ;  for  ail  the  time  1  was  in  the  country  he  seldom 
spoke  to  me  save  when  first  I  asked  of  him,  and  yet  he 
never  showed  any  weariness,  and  often  a  half-smile 
would  dwell  for  a  moment  upon  his  countenance. 

"  '  And  first  I  watched  the  faces  of  them  that  sold  ;  and 
I  could  read  therein— for  be  it  understood  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  degree  of  his  own  capacity,  a  man  there  could 
perfectly  read  the  countenance  of  every  neighbor;  that 
is,  except  it  expressed  something  that  was  not  in  hi'mself 
— I  could  read  in  them  nothing  of  eagerness,  but  only 
the  calm  of  a  concentrated  ministration.  There  was  no 
seeking  there,  but  a  strength  of  giving,  a  business-like 
earnestness  to  supply  lack,  enlivened  by  no  haste  and 
dulled  by  no  weariness,  brightened  ever  by  the  reflected 
contentof  those  who  found  their  wants  supplied.  As  soon 
as  one  buyer  was  contented  they  turned  graciously  to 
another,  and  gave  ear  until  they  perfectly  understood 
yith  what  object  he  had  come  to  seek  their  aid.     Nor 


384  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

did  their  countenances  change  utterly  as  they  turned 
away,  for  upon  them  Hngered  the  satisfaction  as  of  one 
who  hath  had  a  success,  and  by  degrees  melted  into  the 
supervening  content. 

"  '  Then  I  turned  to  watch  the  countenances  of  them 
that  bought.  And  there  in  like  manner  I  saw  no  cupidity 
and  no  meanness.  They  spake  humbly,  yet  not  because 
they  sought  a  favor,  but  because  they  were  humble  ;  for 
with  their  humility  was  mingled  the  confidence  of  receiv- 
ing that  they  sought.  And  truly  it  was  a  pleasure  to  see 
how  every  one  knew  what  his  desire  was,  making  his 
choice  readily  and  with  decision.  I  perceived  also  that 
every  one  spoke  not  merely  respectfully,  but  gratefully, 
to  him  who  served  him.  And  at  meeting  and  parting,  such 
kindly  though  brief  greetings  passed  as  made  me  won- 
der whether  every  inhabitant  of  such  a  mighty  city  could 
know  every  other  that  dwelt  therein.  But  I  soon  saw 
that  it  came  not  of  individual  knowledge,  but  of  univer- 
sal faith  and  all-embracing  love. 

"  '  And  as  I  stood  and  watched,  suddenly  it  came  into 
my  mind  that  I  had  never  yet  seen  the  coin  of  the  coun- 
try, and  thereupon  I  kept  my  eyes  upon  a  certain  woman 
who  bought  silk,  that  when  she  paid  for  the  same  I  might 
see  the  money.  But  that  which  she  had  largely  bought, 
she  took  in  her  arms  and  carried  away,  and  paid  not. 
Therefore  I  turned  to  watch  another,  who  bought  for  a 
long  journey,  but  when  he  carried  away  what  he  bought 
neither  did  he  pay  any  money.  And  1  said  to  myself 
"  These  are  well-known  persons,  to  whom  it  is  more  con- 
venient to  pay  at  a  certain  season  ;"  and  I  turned  to  a 


A    SHOP   IN    HEAVEN.  385 

third,  who  bought  much  fine  Hnen.  But  behold  !  he  paid 
not !  Then  I  began  to  observe  again  those  that  sold  ; 
whereupon  I  thought  with  myself,  "  How  good  must  be 
the  air  of  this  land  for  the  remembrance  of  things  !  for 
these  men  write  down  nothing  to  keep  on  record  the 
moneys  men  owe  them  on  all  sides."  And  I  looked  and 
looked  again  and  yet  again,  and  stood  long  watching  ; 
but  so  it  was  throughout  the  whole  place,  which 
thronged  and  buzzed  and  swarmed  like  the  busiest 
of  beehives — no  man  paid,  and  no  man  had  a  book 
wherein  to  write  that  which  the  other  owed  ! 

"  '  Then  I  turned  to  my  guide  and  said,  '•  How  lovely  is 
honesty  !  and  truly  from  what  a  labor  itabsolveth  men  ! 
for  here  I  see  every  man  keepeth  in  his  mind  his  own 
debts  and  not  the  debts  of  others,  so  that  time  is  not 
spent  in  the  paying  of  small  sums,  neither  in  the  keeping 
of  account  of  such  ;  but  he  that  buyeth  counteth  up, 
and  doubtless,  when  the  day  of  reckoning  arrives,  each 
Cometh  and  casteth  the  money  he  oweth  into  the'  mer- 
chant's colTer,  and  both  are  satisfied." 

"  '  Then  my  conductor  smiled,  and  said,  "  Watch  yet 
awhile." 

"  'And  I  did  as  he  said  unto  me,  and  stood  and  watched. 
But  the  same  thing  went  on  everywhere  ;  and  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Lo  !  1  see  nothing  new  I"  Suddenly,  at  my  side, 
a  man  dropped  upon  his  knees  and  bowed  his  head  to 
the  ground.  And  those  that  stood  nigh  him  dropped 
also  upon  their  knees,  and  there  arose  a  sound  as  of  soft 
thunder  ;  and  lo  !  every  one  in  the  place  had  dropped 
upon  his  knees  and  spread  his  hands  out  befo.e  him. 


386  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Every  voice  and  every  noise  was  hushed,  every  move- 
ment had  ceased,  and  1  and  my  guide  alone  were  left 
standing. 

"'Then  I  whispered  in  his  ear,  "It  is  the  hour  oi 
prayer:  shall  we  not  kneel  also?"  And  my  guide 
answered,  "  No  man  in  this  city  kneeleth  because  other/ 
do,  and  no  man  is  judged  if  he  kneeleth  not.  If  thof 
hast  any  grief  or  pain  upon  thee,  then  kneel  ;  if  not 
then  love  God  in  thy  heart  and  be  thankful,  and  knee* 
when  thou  goest  into  thy  chamber."  Then  said  I,  "r 
will  not  kneel,  but  will  watch  and  see."  "  It  is  well,' 
said  my  guide  ;  and  I  stood. 

"  *  For  certain  moments  all  was  utter  stillness — ever) 
man  and  woman  kneeling,  with  hands  outstretched,  save 
him  who  had  first  kneeled,  and  his  hands  hung  by  his 
sides  and  his  head  was  still  bowed  to  the  earth.  At 
length  he  rose  up,  and  lo  I  his  face  was  wet  with  tears*, 
and  all  the  people  rose  also,  with  a  noise  throughout  the 
place  ;  and  the  man  made  a  low  obeisance  to  them  that 
were  nigh  him,  the  which  they  returned  with  equal  rev- 
erence, and  then,  with  downcast  eyes,  he  walked  slowly 
from  the  shop.  The  moment  he  was  gone,  the  business 
of  the  place,  without  a  word  of  remark  on  any  side  con- 
cerning what  had  passed,  began  again  as  before.  People 
came  and  went,  some  more  eager  and  outward,  some 
more  staid  and  inward,  but  all  contented  and  cheerful.  At 
length  a  bell  somewhere  rang  sweet  and  shrill,  and  alter 
that  no  one  entered  the  place,  and  what  was  in  progress 
began  to  be  led  to  a  decorous  conclusion.  In  three  or 
four  minutes  the  floor  was  empty,  and  the  people  also  ut 


A  SHOP  IN   HEAVEN.  387 


the  shop  had  gone,  each  about  his  own  affairs,  without 
shutting  door  or  window. 

"  '  I  went  out  last  with  my  guide,  and  we  seated 
ourselves  under  a  tree  of  the  willow  kind  on  the  bank 
of  one  of  the  quieter  streams,  and  straightway  I 
began  to  question  him.  "Tell  me,  sir,"  I  said,  "the 
purport  of  what  I  have  seen ;  for  not  yet  have  1 
understood  how  these  happy  people  do  their  busi- 
ness and  pass  from  hand  to  hand  not  a  single 
coin."  And  he  answered,  "  Where  greed  and  ambition 
and  self-love  rule,  money  must  be ;  where  there  is 
neither  greed  nor  ambition  nor  self-rule,  money  is 
needless."  And  I  asked,  "  Is  it  then  by  the  same 
ancient  mode  of  barter  that  they  go  about  their  affairs  ? 
truly  I  saw  no  exchange  of  any  sort."  "  Bethink  thee," 
said  my  guide,  "if  thou  hadst  gone  into  any  other  shop 
throughout  the  whole  city,  thou  wouldst  have  seen  the 
same  thing."  '*  I  see  not  how  that  should  make  the 
matter  plainer  to  me,"  I  answered.  "  Where  neither 
greed  nor  ambition  nor  selhshness  reigneth,"  said  my 
guide,  "theie  need  and  desire  have  free  scope,  for  they 
work  no  evil."  "  But  even  now  I  understand  you  not, 
sir,"  I  said.  "  Hear  me,  then,"  answered  my  guide,  "  for 
I  wil!  speak  to  thee  moie  plainly.  Wheiefore  do  men 
take  money  in  their  hands  when  they  go  where  things 
arc  ?"  "  Because  they  may  not  have  the  things  without 
giving  the  money."  "  And  where  they  may  have  things 
without  giving  money,  there  they  take  no  money 
in  their  hands  .^"  "Truly  no,  sir,  if  there  be  such 
a    place."      "Then   such    a   place    is   this,   and    so    is 


388  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

it  here."  "But  how  can  men  give  of  their  goods 
and  receive  naught  in  return?"  "By  receiving 
everything  in  return.  Tell  me,"  said  my  guide, 
why  do  men  take  money  for  their  goods  ?"  "  That 
they  may  have  wherewithal  to  go  and  buy  other 
things  which  they  need  for  themselves."  '•  But  if  they 
also  may  go  to  this  place  or  that  place  where  the  things 
are  the  which  they  need,  and  receive  of  those  things  with- 
out money  and  without  price,  is  there  then  good  cause 
why  they  should  take  money  in  their  hands  ?"  "Truly 
no,"  I  answered  ;  "  and  I  begin,  methinks,  to  see  how  the 
affair  goeth.  Yet  are  there  some  things  still  whereupon 
I  would  gladly  be  resolved.  And  first  of  all,  how  Com- 
eth it  that  men  are  moved  to  provide  these  and  those 
goods  for  the  supply  of  the  wants  of  their  neighbors 
when  they  are  drawn  thereto  by  no  want  in  themselves 
and  no  advantage  to  themselves  ?"  "  Thou  reasonest," 
said  my  guide,  "  as  one  of  thine  own  degree,  who  to  the 
eyes  of  the  full-born  ever  look  like  chrysalids,  closed 
round  in  a  web  of  their  own  weaving ;  and  who  shall  blame 
thee  until  thou  thyself  shinest  within  thyself?  Under- 
stand that  it  is  never  advantage  to  himself  that  moveth  a 
man  in  this  kingdom  to  undertake  this  or  that.  The  thing 
that  alone  advantageth  a  man  here  is  the  thing  which 
doth  without  thought  unto  that  advantage.  To  your 
world,  this  world  goeth  by  contraries.  The  man  here  that 
doeth  most  service,  that  aideth  others  the  most  to  the  ob- 
taining of  their  honest  desires,  is  the  man  who  standeth 
highest  with  the  Lord  of  the  place,  and  his  reward  and 
honor  is  to  be  enabled   to  the   spending  of  himself  yet 


A   SHOP   IN   HEAVEN.  389 


more  for  the  good  of  his  fellows.  There  goeth  a  rumor 
amongst  us  even  now  that  one  shall  erelong  be  ripe  for 
the  carrying  of  a  message  from  the  King  to  the  spirits  that 
are  in  prison.  Thinkest  thou  it  is  a  less  potent  stirring 
up  of  thought  and  energy  to  desire  and  seek  and  find  the 
things  that  will  please  the  eye  and  cheer  the  brain  and 
gladden  the  heart  of  the  people  of  this  great  city,  so  as 
when  one  prayeth,  Give  me,  friend,  of  thy  loaves,  a  man 
may  answer,  Take  of  them,  friend,  as  many  as  thou  need- 
est — is  that,  I  say,  an  incentive  to  diligence  less  potent 
than  the  desire  to  hoard  or  to  excel  ?  Is  it  not  to  share 
the  bliss  of  God  who  hoardeth  nothing,  but  ever  giveth 
liberally  }  The  joy  of  a  man  here  is  to  enable  another  to 
lay  hold  upon  that  which  is  of  his  own  kind  and  be  glad 
and  grow  thereby — doctrine  strange  and  unbelievable  to 
the  man  in  whom  the  well  of  life  is  yet  sealed.  Never 
have  they  been  many  at  a  time  in  the  old  world  who 
could  thus  enter  into  the  joy  of  their  Lord.  And  yet,  if 
thou  bethink  thee,  thou  wilt  perceive  that  such  bliss  is 
not  unknown  amongst  thy  fellows.  Knowest  thou  no 
musician  who  would  find  it  jo}'-  enough  for  a  night  to 
scale  the  tower  of  a  hundred  bells,  and  send  the  great  me- 
teors of  music-light  flying  over  the  care-tortured  city? 
Would  every  one  even  of  thy  half-created  race  reason 
with  himself  and  say, '  Truly  it  is  in  the  night,  and  no  one 
1  can  see  who  it  is  that  ministereth  ;  the  sounds  alone  will 
go  forth  nor  bear  my  image  ;  I  shall  reap  no  honor  ;  I 
will  not  rise  and  go  ' .''  Thou  knowest,  I  say,  some  in  thy 
world  who  would  not  speak  thus  in  their  hearts,  but 
would  willingly  consent  to  be  as  nothing,  so  to  give  life 


390  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 


to  their  fellows.  In  this  city  so  is  it  with  all— in  shop 
or  workshop,  in  study  or  theatre,  all  seek  to  spend 
and  be  spent  for  the  lovely  all."  And  I  said,  "One  thing 
tell  me,  sir  :  how  much  a  man  may  have  for  the  asking.  " 
"  What  he  will— that  is,  what  he  can  well  use."  "Who 
then  shall  be  the  judge  thereof.?"  "Who  but  the  man 
himself  ?"  "  M^hat  if  he  should  turn  to  greed,  and  begin 
to  hoard  and  spare  ?"  "  Sawest  thou  not  the  man  this  day 
because  of  whom  all  business  ceased  for  a  time  ?  To  that 
man  had  come  a  thought  of  accumulation  instead  of 
growth,  and  he  dropped  upon  his  knees  in  shame  and 
terror.  And  thou  sawest  how  all  business  ceased,  and 
Straightway  that  of  the  shop  was  made  what  below  they 
call  a  church  ;  for  every  one  hastened  to  the  poor 
man's  help,  the  air  was  filled  with  praying  breath,  and 
the  atmosphere  of  God-loving  souls  was  around  him  ;  the 
foul  thought  fled,  and  the  man  went  forth  glad  and  hum- 
ble, and  to-morrow  he  will  return  for  that  which  he  need- 
eth.  If  thou  shouldst  be  present  then,  thou  wilt  see  him 
more  tenderly  ministered  unto  than  all  the  rest." 
"  And  if  such  a  man  prayed  not  ?"  "  If  such  a  man  slept 
ere  he  repented,  he  would  wake  with  hatred  in  his  heart 
toward  the  city  and  every  one  therein,  and  would 
straightwa)^  flee  into  the  wilderness.  And  the  angel  of 
the  Lord  would  go  out  after  him  and  smite  him  with 
a  word,  and  he  would  vanish  from  amongst  us,  and 
his  life  would  be  the  life  of  one  of  those  least  of  liv- 
ing things  that  are  in  your  world  born  of  the  water  ;  and 
there  must  he  grow  up  again,  crawling  through  the  chan- 
nels of  thousand- folded  difference,  from  animal  to  ani- 


A    SHOP    IN    HEAVEN.  39I 


inal,  until  at  length  a  human  brain  be  given  him,  and 
iiller  generations  he  become  once  again  capable  of  being 
born  of  the  spirit  into  the  kingdom  of  liberty.  Then 
shall  all  his  past  life  open  upon  him,  and  in  shame  and 
dismay  will  he  repent  a  thousand-fold,  and  will  sin  no. 
more.  Such,  at  least,  are  the  thoughts  of  our  wise  men 
apon  the  matter  ;  but  truly  we  know  not."  "  It  is  good," 
I  said.  "  But  how  are  men  guided  as  to  what  lies  to  them 
to  provide  for  the  general  good  .''"  "  Every  man  doeth 
what  thing  he  can,  and  the  more  his  labor  is  desired 
the  more  he  rejoices."  "If  a  man  should  desire  that  he 
could  nowhere  find  in  the  city.^"  "Then  he  would 
straightway  do  his  endeavor  to  provide  that  thing  for 
:;11  in  the  city  who  might  after  him  desire  the  same." 
"Now,  sir,  methinks  I  know  and  understand,"  I  answer- 
ed.    And  we  rose  and  went  further.'  " 

"  I  think  th2itcou/d  be  !"  said  the  curate,  breaking  the 
silence  that  followed  when  Rachel  ceased. 

"  Not  in  this  world,"  said  the  draper. 

"  To  doubt  that  it  coz^/d  be,"  said  the  gate-keeper, 
"  would  be  to  doubt  whether  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
a  chimera  or  a  divine  idea." 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

POLWARTH    AND    LINGARD. 

HE  morning  after  Wingfold's  second  visit 
Lingard — much  to  his  sister's  surprise,  partly 
to  her  pleasure,  and  somewhat  to  her  conster- 
nation— asked  for  his  clothes  :  he  wanted  to 
get  up.  So  little  energy  had  he  hitherto  shown,  so  weak 
was  he,  and  so  frequent  had  been  the  symptoms  of  re- 
turning fever,  that  the  doctor  had  not  yet  thought  of  ad- 
vising more  than  an  hour's  sitting  while  his  bed  was 
made  comfortable.  And  Helen  had  felt  that  she  had 
him,  if  not  safe,  yet  safer  in  bed  than  he  could  be  else- 
where. 

His  wish  to  rise  was  a  sign  that  he  was  getting 
better.  But  could  she  wish  him  to  get  better,  see- 
ing every  hour  threatened  to  be  an  hour  of  torture  ?  On 
the  other  hand,  she  could  not  but  hope  that,  for  the  last 
day  or  so,  his  mind  had  been  a  little  more  at  ease.  As- 
suredly the  light  in  his  eye  was  less  troubled  :  perhaps 
he  saw  prospect  of  such  mental  quiet  as  might  render 
life  endurable. 


POLWARTH    AND    LINGARD. 


393 


He  declined  assistance,  and  Helen,  having  got  him 
ever}^  thing  he  required,  left  the  room  to  wait  within 
hearing.  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  dress,  but  he  had 
resolved  to  do  it  himself,  and  at  length  called  Helen. 

She  found  he  looked  worse  in  his  clothes — fearfully- 
worn  and  white.  Ah  !  what  a  sad  ghost  he  was  of  his 
former  sunny  self!  Helen  turned  her  eyes  from  him  that 
he  might  not  see  how  changed  she  thought  him,  and 
there  were  the  trees  in  the  garden,  and  the  meadows  and 
the  park  beyond,  bathing  in  the  strength  of  the  sun  be- 
twixt the  blue  sky  and  the  green  earth  !  "  What  a  hid- 
eous world  it  is  !"  she  said  to  herself.  She  was  not  yet 
persuaded,  like  her  cousin,  that  it  was  the  best  possible 
world — only  that,  unfortunately,  not  much  was  possible 
in  worlds. 

"  Will  you  get  me  something,  Helen  ?"  he  said.  "Mr. 
Wingfold  will  be  here,  and  I  want  to  be  able  to  talk  to 
him." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  asked  for  food,  though 
he  had  seldom  refused  to  take  what  she  brought 
him.  She  made  him  lie  on  the  couch,  and  gave  orders 
that  if  Mr.  Wingfold  called,  he  should  be  shown  up 
at  once.  Leopold's  face  brightened  ;  he  actually  looked 
pleased  when  his  soup  came.  When  Wingfold  was  an- 
nounced, he  grew  for  a  moment  radiant. 

Helen  received  the  curate  respectfully,  but  not  very 
cordially  :  she  could  not  make  Leopold's  face  shine  ! 

"  Would  your  brother  like  to  see  Mr.  Polw^rth  ?" 
asked  the  curate  rather  abruptly. 

"  I  will   see  any  one  you  would  like  me  to  see,  Mr. 


394  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


Wingfold,"  answered  Lingard  for  himself,  with  a  deci- 
sion that  strongly  indicated  returning  strength. 

"  But,  Leopold,  you  know  that  it  is  hardly  to  be  de- 
sired," suggested  Helen,  "  that  more  persons — " 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  interrupted  Leopold,  with 
strange  expression. 

'•  Perhaps  I  had  better  tell  you,  Miss  Lingard,"  said  the 
curate,  "that  it  was  Mr.  Polwarth  who  found  the  thing 
I  gave  you.  After  your  visit,  he  could  not  fail  to  put 
things  together;  arid  had  he  been  a  common  man, 
I  should  have  judged  it  prudent  to  tell  him  for  the  sake 
of  secrecy  What  I  have  told  him  for  the  sake  of  counsel. 
I  repeat  in  your  brother's  hearing  what  I  said  to  you, 
that  he  is  the  wisest  and  best  man  I  have  ever  known. 
I  left  him  in  the  meadow  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  He 
is  suffering  to-day,  and  I  wanted  to  save  him  the  longer 
walk.     If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  go  and  bring  him  in." 

"  Do,"  said  Leopold.  "  Think,  Helen  !  If  he  is  the 
wisest  and  best  man  Mr. Wingfold  ever  knew  !  Tell  him 
where  to  find  the  key." 

"  I  will  go  myself,''  she  said,  with  a  yielding  to  the  in- 
evitable. 

When  she  opened  the  door,  there  was  the  little  man 
seated-,  a  few  yards  off,  on  the  grass.  He  had  plucked  a 
cowslip,  and  was  looking  into  it  so  intently  that  he 
neither  heard  nor  saw  her. 

••  Mr.  Polwarth  !"  said  Helen. 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  rose,  and,  taking  of!  his  hat,  said, 
with  a  smile, 

'•  I  was  looking  into  the  cowslip  for  the  spots  which 


POLWARTH    AND    LINGARD.  395 


the  fairy  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  calls  rubies. 
How  is  your  brother,  Miss  Lingard  ?" 

Helen  answered  with  cold  politeness,  and  led  the  way 
up  the  garden  with  considerably  more  statelincss  of  de- 
meanor than  was  necessary. 

When  he  followed  her  into  the  room, 

"This  is  Mr.  Polwarth,  Leopold,"  said  the  curate,  ris- 
ing respectfully.  "  You  may  speak  to  him  as  freely  as 
to  me,  and  he  is  far  more  able  to  give  you  counsel  than 
I  am." 

"Would  you  mind  shaking  hands  with  me,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth ?"  said  Leopold,  holding  out  his  shadowy  hand. 

Polwarth  took  it,  with  the  kindest  of  stniles,  and  held 
it  a  moment  in  his. 

"  You  think  me  an  odd-looking  creature,  don't  3"OU  .?" 
he  said  ;  "  but  just  because  God  made  me   so   I  have 
been   compelled  to   think    about  things   I   might  have 
otherwise  have  forgotten,  and  that  is  why  Mr.  Wingfold 
would  have  me  come  to  see  you." 

The  curate  placed  a  chair  for  him,  and  the  gate-keeper 
sat  down.  Helen  seated  herself  a  little  way  off  in  the 
window,  pretending — hardly  more — to  hem  a  handker- 
chief. Leopold's  big  eyes  went  wandering  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  two  men. 
^  "  What  a  horrible  world  it  is  !"  was  the  thought  that 
kept  humming  on  like  an  evil  insect  in  Helen's  heart. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  suffer  so  much,"  said  Leopold 
kindly,  for  he  heard  the  labored  breath  of  the  little 
man,  and  saw  the  heaving  of  his  chest. 

"It  does  not  greatly  trouble  me,"  returned  Polwarth. 


396  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


"  It  is  not  my  fault,  3^ou  see,"  he  added,  with  a  smile; 
"at  least  I  don't  think  it  is." 

"  You  are  happy  to  suffer  without  fault,"  said  Leopold. 
"It  is  because  it  is  just  that  my  punishment  seems  great- 
er than  I  can  bear." 

"  You  need  God's  forgiveness  in  your  soul." 

"  I  don't  see  how  that  should  do  any  thing  for  me." 

"  I  do  not  mean  it  would  take  away  your  suffering  ; 
but  it  would  make  you  able  to  bear  it.  It  would  be 
fresh  life  in  you." 

"  I  can't  see  why  it  should.  I  can't  feel  that  I  have 
wronged  God.  I  have  been  trying  to  feel  it,  Mr.  Wing- 
fold,  ever  since  you  talked  to  me.  But  I  don't  know 
God,  and  I  only  feel  what  I  have  done  to  Emmeline.  If  I 
said  to  God,  Pardon  me,  and  he  said  to  me,  I  do  pardon 
you,  I  should  feel  just  the  same.  What  could  that  do  to  set 
any  thing  right  that  I  have  set  wrong  ?  I  am  what  I  am 
and  what  T  ever  shall  be,  and  the  injury  which  came 
from  me  cleaves  fast  to  her,  and  is  my  wrong  wherever 
she  is." 

He  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  What  use  can  it  be  to  torture  the  poor  boy  so .?" 
said  Helen  to  herself. 

The  two  men  sat  silent.     Then  Polwarth  said, 

"  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  use  in  trying  to  feel.  And  no 
amount  of  trying  could  enable  you  to  imagine  what 
God's  forgiveness  is  like  to  those  that  have  it  in  them. 
Tell  me  something  more  you  do  feel,  Mr.  Lingard." 

"  I  feel  that  I  could  kill  myself  to  bring  her  back  to 
life." 


POLWARTH    AND    LINGARt).  397 

"  That  is,  you  \vould  kindly  make  amends  for  the 
wrong  you  have  done  her." 

"  I  would  give  my  life,  my  soul,  to  do  it." 

"  And  there  is  nothing  you  can  do  for  it }" 

Helen  began  to  tremble. 

"  What  is  there  that  can  be  done  }"  answered  Leo- 
pold. '  It  does  seem  hard  that  a  man  should  be  made 
capable  of  doing  things  that  tie  is  not  made  capable  of 
undoing  again." 

"  It  is  indeed  a  terrible  thought  !  And  even  the  small- 
est wrong  is,  perhaps,  too  awful  a  thing  for  created 
being  ever  to  set  right  again." 

"  You  mean  it  takes  God  to  do  that  .^" 

"  I  do." 

"  I  don't  see  how  he  could  ever  set  some  things  right," 

"  He  would  not  be  God  if  he  could  not  or  would  not 
do  for  his  creature  what  that  creature  can  not  do  for 
himself,  and  must  have  done  for  him  or  lose  his  life." 

"  Then  he  isn't  God,  for  he  can't  help  me." 

"  Because  you  don't  see  what  can  be  done  you  say 
God  can  do  nothing — which  is  as  much  as  to  say  there 
can  not  be  more  within  his  scope  than  there  is  within 
yours  !  One  thing  is  clear  :  that  if  he  saw  no  more  than 
lies  within  your  ken,  he  could  not  be  God.  The  very 
impossibility  you  see  in  the  thing  points  to  the  region 
wherein  God  works." 

"  I  don  t  quite  understand  you.  But  it  don't  matter. 
It's  all  a  horrible  mess.     I  wish  1  were  dead." 

"My  dear  sir,  is  it  reasonable  that  because  a  being  so 
capable  ot  going  wrong  finds  himself  incapable  of  set- 


39^  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

ting  right,  he  should  judge  it  useless  to  crj'  to  that  Being 
who  called  him  into  being  to  come  to  his  aid,  and  that  in 
the  face  of  the  story — if  it  be  but  an  old  legend,  worn 
and  disfigured — that  he  took  upon  himself  our  sins  ?" 

Leopold  hung  his  head. 

"God  needs  no  making  up  to  him,"  the  gate-keeper 
went  on  ;  "  so  far  (rom  it  that  he  takes  our  sins  on  him- 
self that  he  may  clear  them  out  of  the  universe.  How 
could  he  say  that  he  took  our  sins  upon  him  if  he  could 
not  make  amends  for  them  to  those  they  had  hurt  ?" 

"Ah  !"  cried  Leopold,  with  a  profound  sigh,  "if  that 
could  be  !  if  he  could  really  do  that !" 

"Why,  of  course  he  can  do  that  I"  said  Polwarth. 
"What  sort  of  watch-maker  were  he  who  could  not  set 
right  the  watches  and  clocks  himself  made  ?" 

"  But  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  ! — " 

"Which  God  does  far  more  than  make  !"  interposed 
Polwarth.  "  That  a  being  able  to  make  another  self- 
conscious  being  distinct  from  himself,  should  be  able 
also  to  set  right  whatever  that  being  could  set  wrong 
seems  to  me  to  follow  of  simple  necessity.  He  might 
even,  should  that  be  lit,  put  the  man  himself  in  the  way 
of  making  up  for  what  he  had  done,  or  at  least  put  it  in 
his  power  to  ask  and  receive  a  forgiveness  that  would 
set  all  right  between  him  and  the  person  wronged.  One 
of  the  painful  things  in  the  dogma  of  the  endless  loss  of 
the  wicked  is  that  it  leaves  no  room  for  the  righteous 
to  make  up  to  them  for  the  wrongs  they  did  them  in 
this  life.  For  the  righteous  do  the  wicked  far  more 
wrong  than  they   think — the   righteous   being    all  the 


POLWARTH   AND    LINGARD.  399 

time,  in  reality,  the  wealthy,  and  the  wicked  the  poor. 
But  it  is  a  blessed  word  that  there  are  first  that  shall  be 
last,  and  last  that  shall  be  first.  " 

Helen  stared.  This  last  sounded  to  her  mere  raving 
madness,  and  she  thought  hew  wrong  she  had  been  to 
allow  such  fanatics  to  gain  power  over  her  poor  Leopold 
— ^who  sat  before  them  whiter  than  ev^.r,  and  with  what 
she  took  for  a  vrilder  gleam  in  his  eye. 

"  Is  there  not  the  might  of  love,  and  all  eternity  for  it 
to  work  in,  to  set  things  right  ?"  ended  Polwarth. 

"  O  God  I"  cried  Leopold,  "  if  that  might  be  true  ! 
That  would  be  a  gift  indeed — the  power  to  make  up  for 
the  wrong  I  have  done  I" 

He  rose  from  the  couch — slowly,  sedately,  I  had  al- 
most said  formally,  like  one  with  a  settled  object — and 
stood  erect,  swaying  a  little  from  weakness. 

"  Mr.  Wingfold,"  he  said,  "  I  want  of  you  one  more 
favor :  will  you  take  me  to  the  nearest  magistrate  ? 
I  wish  to  give  myself  up." 

Helen  started  up  and  came  forward,  paler  than  the 
sick  man. 

"  Mr.  Wingfold  !  Mr.  Polwarth  !"  she  said,  and  turned 
from  the  one  to  the  other,  "  the  boy  is  not  himself. 
You  will  never  allow  him  to  do  such  a  mad  thing  !" 

"  It  may  be  the  right  thing,"  said  the  curate  to  Leo- 
pold, "  but  we  must  not  act  without  consideration." 

"I  have  considered  and  considered  it  for  days 
-<=-for  weeks,"  returned  Leopold;  "but  until  this 
moment  1  never  had  the  courage  to  resolve  on  the 
plainest  of  duties.     Helen,  if  I  were  to  go  up  to  the 


400  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


throne  of  God  with  the  psalm  in  my  mouth,  and  say  to 
him,  'Against  thee,  thee  only,  have  I  sinned,'  it  would 
be  false  ;  for  I  have  sinned  against  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  England  at  least,  and  I  will  repudiate  myself. 
To  the  throne  of  God  I  want  to  go,  and  there  is  no  way 
thither  for  me  but  through  the  gate  of  the  law." 

"  Leopold  !"  pleaded  Helen  as  if  for  her  own  life  with 
some  hard  judge,  "  what  good  can  it  do  to  send  another 
hfe  after  the  one  that  is  gone  ?  It  can  not  bring  it  back 
or  heal  a  single  sorrow  for  its  loss." 

"Except,  perhaps,  my  own,"  said  Leopold  in  a  feeble 
voice,  but  not  the  less  in  a  determined  tone. 

"  Live  till  God  sends  for  you,"  persisted  Helen,  heed- 
less of  his  words.  "  You  can  give  your  life  to  make  up 
for  the  wrong  you  have  done  in  a  thousand  better  ways  : 
that  would  be  but  to  throw  it  in  the  dirt !  There  is  so 
much  good  waiting  to  be  done  !  ' 

Leopold  sank  on  the  couch. 

"  I  am  sitting  down  again,  Helen,  only  because  I  am 
not  able  to  stand,"  he  said.  "  I  will  go.  Don't  talk  to 
me  about  doing  good  !  Whatever  I  touched  I  should  but 
smear  with  blood.  I  want  the  responsibility  of  my  own 
life  taken  of!  me.  I  am  like  the  horrible  creature  Frank- 
enstein made — one  that  has  no  right  to  existence — and  at 
the  same  time  like  the  maker  of  it,  who  is  accountable 
for  that  existence.  I  am  a  blot  on  God's  creation  that 
must  be  wiped  off.  For  this  my  strength  is  given 
back  to  me,  and  I  am  once  more  able  to  will  and  resolve. 
You  will  find  I  can  act  too.  Helen,  if  you  will  in- 
deed be   my  sister,  you   must  not  prevent  me  now,     I 


POLWARTH    AND    LINGARD.  40I 


know  it  is  hard  upon  you,  awfully  hard.  I  know  I  am 
dragging  your  hfe  down  with  mine,  but  I  can  not 
help  it.  If  I  don't  do  it,  I  shall  but  go  out  of  one 
madness  into  another,  ever  a  deeper,  until  the  devils 
can't  hold  me.  Mr.  Polwarth,  is  it  not  my  duty 
to  give  myself  up?  Ought  not  the  evil  thing  to 
be  made  manifest  and  swept  out  of  the  earth  ?  Most 
people  grant  it  a  man's  first  duty  to  take  care  of 
his  life :  that  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do  for  mine.  It 
is  now  a  filthy  pool  with  a  corpse  in  it :  I  would  clean 
it  out ;  have  the  thing  buried  at  least,  though  never  for- 
gotten— never,  never  forgotten.  Then  I  shall  die  and 
go  to  God  and  see  what  he  can  do  for  me." 

"  Why  should  you  put  it  ofif  till  then  }"  said  Pol- 
warth.    "  Why  not  go  to  him  at  once  and  tell  him  all  ?" 

As  if  it  had  been  Samuel  at  the  command  of  Eli,  Leo- 
pold rose  and  crept  feebly  across  the  floor  to  the 
dressing-room,  entered  it  and  closed  the  door. 

Then  Helen  turned  upon  Wingfold  with  a  face 
white  as  linen  and  eyes  flashing  with  troubled  wrath. 
The  tigress-mother  swelled  in  her  heart,  and  she  looked 
like  a  Maenad  indeed. 

"  Is  this  then  your  religion  ?"  she  cried,  with  quivering 
nostril.  "  Would  he  you  dare  to  call  your  master  have 
stolen  into  the  house  of  a  neighbor  to  play  upon  the 
weakness  of  a  poor  lad  suffering  from  brain-fever?  A 
fine  trophy  of  your  persuasive  power  and  priestly  craft 
you  would  make  of  him  !  What  is  it  to  you  whether  he 
confesses  his  sins  or  not  ?     If   he  confesses  them  to 


402  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

him  you  say  is  your  God,  is  not  that  enough  ?  For 
shame,  gentlemen  !" 

She  ceased,  and  stood  trembling  and  flashing — a  hu- 
man thunder-cloud.  Neither  of  the  men  cared  to  assert 
innocence,  because,  although  they  had  not  advised  thfe 
step,  they  entirely  approved  of  it. 

A  moment  more,  and  her  anger  suddenly  went  out. 
She  burst  into  tears,  and  falling  on  her  knees  before  the 
curate,  begged  and  prayed  like  a  child  condemned  to 
some  frightful  punishment.  It  was  terrible  to  Wing- 
fold  to  see  a  woman  in  such  an  agony  of  prayer  to  one 
who  would  not  grant  it — and  that  one  himself.  In  vain 
he  sought  to  raise  her. 

"  If  you  do  not  save  Leopold,  I  will  kili  myself,"  she 
cried,  "  and  my  blood  will  be  on  your  head." 

"The  only  way  to  save  your  brother  is  to  strengthen 
him  to  do  his  duty,  whatever  that  may  be." 

The  hot-fit  of  her  mental  labor  returned.  She  sprang 
to  her  feet,  and  her  face  turned  again,  almost  like  that 
of  a  corpse,  with  pale  wrath. 

"Leave  the  house  !"  she  said,  turning  sharply  upon 
Polwarth,  who  stood  solemn  and  calm  at  Wingfold's  side, 
a  step  behind.  It  was  wonderful  what  an  unconscious 
dignity  radiated  from  him. 

"  If  my  friend  goes,  I  go  too,"  said  Wingfold.  "  But  1 
must  first  tell  your  brother  why." 

He  made  a  step  towards  the  dressing-room. 

But  now  came  a  fresh  change  of  mood  upon  Helen. 
She  darted  between  him  and  the  door,  and  stood  there 
with  such  a  look  of  humble  entreaty  as  went  to  his  very 


POLWARTH    AND    LINGARD.  403 

heart  and  all  but  unmanned  him.  Ah  I  how  lovely  she 
looked  in  the  silent  prayer  of  tears  I  But  not  even  her 
tears  could  turn  Wingfold  from  what  seemed  his  duty. 
They  could  only  bring  answering  tears  from  the  depth 
of  a  tender  heart.     She  saw  he  would  not  flinch. 

"  Then  may  God  do  to  you  as  you  have  done  to  me 
and  mine  !"  she  said. 

"  Amen  !"  returned  Wingfold  and  Polwarth  together. 

The  door  of  the  dressing-room  opened,  and  out  came 
Leopold,  his  white  fixcQ  shining. 

"  God  has  heard  me  !"  he  cried. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  said  his  sister,  in  the 
hoarse  accents  of  unbelieving  despair. 

"  Because  he  has  made  me  strong  to  do  my  duty.  He 
has  reminded  me  that  another  man  may  be  accused  of 
my  crime,  and  now  to  conceal  myself  were  to  double 
my  baseness." 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  to  think  of  that  when  there 
is  a  necessity  for  it.  The  thing  you  imagine  may  never 
happen,"  said  Helen,  in  the  same  unnatural  voice. 

"  Leave  it,"  cried  Leopold,  "  until  an  innocent  man 
shall  have  suffered  the  torture  and  shame  of  a  false  accu- 
sation, that  a  guilty  man  may  a  little  longer  act  the 
hypocrite  !  No,  Helen,  I  have  not  fallen  so  low  as  that 
yet.  Believe  me,  this  is  the  only  living  hour  1  have 
had  since  I  did  the  deed  I"  But  as  he  spoke,  the  light 
died  out  of  his  face ;  and  ere  they  could  reach  him,  he 
had  fallen  heavily  on  the  floor. 

"  You   have   killed   him  !"   cried   Helen,   in   a   stifled 


404  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

shriek  ;  for  all  the  time  she  had  never  forgotten  that  her 
aunt  might  hear. 

But  the  same  moment  she  caught  from  his  condition 
a  lurid  hope. 

"  Go,  I  beg  of  you,"  she  said,  "by  the  window  there, 
before  my  aunt  comes.  She  must  have  heard  the  fall. 
There  is  the  key  of  the  door  below." 

The  men  obeyed,  and  left  the  house  in  silence. 

It  was  some  time  before  Leopold  returned  to  con- 
sciousness. He  made  no  resistance  to  being  again  put 
to  bed,  where  he  lay  in  extreme  exhaustion. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 


THE      STRONG      MAN 


1 

HE  next  day  he  was  still  much  too  exhausted 
and  weak  to  talk  about  any  thing.  He  took 
what  his  sister  brought  him,  smiled  his 
thanks,  and  once  put  up  his  hand  and  strok- 
ed her  cheek.  But  her  heart  was  not  gladdened  by 
these  signs  of  comparative  composure,  for  what  gave 
him  quiet  but  the  same  that  filled  her  with  unspeakable 
horror? 

The  day  after  that  was  Saturday,  and  George  Bascombe 
came  as  usual.  The  sound  of  his  step  in  the  hall  made 
her  dying  hope  once  more  flutter  its  wings  :•  having  lost 
the  poor  stay  of  the  parson,  from  whom  she  had  never 
expected  much,  she  turned,  in  her  fresh  despair,  to  her 
cousin,  from  whom,  she  had  never  looked  for  any  thing. 
Bat  what  was  she  to  say  to  him  ?  Nothing  yet,  she  re- 
solved ;  but  she  would  take  him  to  see  Leopold  ;  for  was 
he  not  sure  to  hear  that  the  parson  had  been  admitted  ? 
She  did  not  feel  at  all  that  she  was  doing  right,  but  she 
would  do  it ;    and  if  she  left  them   together,    possibly 


4o6  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

George  might  drop  some  good  practical  advice,  which, 
though  spoken  in  ignorance,  might  yet  tell.  George  was 
such  a  healthy  nature  and  such  a  sound  thinker  !  Was 
it  not  as  ridiculous  as  horrible  for  any  man  to  think 
that  he  had  a  right  to  throw  away  his  very  existence, 
and  bring  disgrace  upon  his  family  as  well,  for  a  mere 
point   of   honor — no,    not  honor,  mere  fastidiousnsss  ? 

Leopold  was  better,  and  willing  enough  to  see  George, 
saying  only, 

"I  would  rather  it  were  Mr.  Wingfold.  But  he  can't 
come  to-day,  I  suppose,  to-morrow  being  Sunday."  . 

George's  entrance  brought  with  it  a  waft  of  breezy 
health  and  a  show  of  bodily  vigor  pleasant  and  re- 
freshing to  the  heart  of  the  invalid.  Kindness  shone  in 
his  eyes,  and  his  large,  handsome  hand  was  out  as  usual 
while  he  was  yet  yards  away.  It  swallowed  up  that 
of  poor  Leopold,  and  held  it  fast. 

"  Come  come,  old  fellow !  what's  the  meaning  of 
this?"  he  said  right  cheerily.  "You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourself — lying  in  bed  like  this  in  such 
weather  !  Why  ain't  you  riding  in  the  park  with  Helen 
instead  of  moping  in  this  dark  room?  You'll  be  as 
blind  as  the  fish  in  the  cave  of  Kentucky  if  j-ou  don't 
get  out  of  this  directly  !  We  must  see  what  we  can 
do  to  get  you  up  !" 

He  glanced  round  the  room,  saw  that  Helen  had  left 
it,  and  changed  his  tone  to  a  lower  and  more  serious 
or.e : 

"  I  say,  my  boy,  you  must  nave  been  playing  old  Har- 
ry with  your  constitution  to  bring  yourself  to  such  a 


THE   STRONG   MAN.  407 


pass  I  By  Jove  I  this  will  never  do  !  You  must  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  you  know.  That  sort  of  thing  never 
pays.  The  game's  not  worth  the  candle.  Why,  you've 
been  at  death's  door,  and  life's  not  so  long  that  you  can 
■'  afford  to  pla}'  ducks  and  drakes  with  it." 

Thus  he  talked,  in  expostulatory  rattle,  the  very  high- 
priest  of  social  morality,  for  some  time  before  Leopold 
could  get  a  word  in.  But  when  he  did,  it  turned  the 
current  into  quite  another  channel. 

An  hour  passed,  and  George  reappeared  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, where  Helen  was  waiting  for  him.  He  looked 
very  grave. 

"  I  fear  matters  are  worse  with  poor  Leopold  than  I 
had  imagined,"  he  said. 

Helen  gave  a  sad  nod  of  acquiescence. 

"  He's  quite  off  his  head,"  continued  George," — telling 
me  such  an  awful  cock-and-bull  stojy  with  the  greatest 
gravity  !  He  iviil  have  it  that  he  is  a  murderer — the 
murderer  of  that  very  girl  I  was  telling  you  about,  you 
remember — " 

"Yes,  yes  !  I  know,"  said  Helen,  as  a  faint  gleam  of 
reviving  hope  shot  up  from  below  her  horizon.  George 
took  the  whole  thing  for  a  sick  fancy,  and  who  was  likely 
to  know  better  than  he — a  lawyer,  and  skilled  in  evi- 
dence ?  Not  a  word  would  she  say  to  interfere  with  such 
an  opinion  ! 

"  I  hope  you  gave  him  a  good  talking  to,"  she  said. 

"  Of  course  I  did,"  he  answered  ;  "  but  it  was  of  no 
use.  I  see  exactly  how  it  is.  He  gave  me  a  full  and  cir- 
cumstantial account  of  the  affair,  filling  up  all  the  gaps, 


4o8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

it  is  true,  but  going  only  just  as  far  as  the  newspapers 
supplied  the  skeleton.  How  he  got  away,  for  instance, 
he  could  not  tell  me.  And  now  nothing  will  serve  him 
but  confess  it  !  He  don't  care  who  knows  it  !  He's  as 
mad  as  a  hatter  ! — I  beg  your  pardon,  Helen — on  that 
one  point,  I  mean.  The  moment  I  saw  him  1  read  mad- 
ness in  his  eye.     What's  to  be  done  now.^" 

"  George,  I  look  to  you,"  said  Helen.  "  Poor  aunt  is 
no  use.  Think  what  will  become  of  her  if  the  unhappy 
boy  should  attempt  to  give  himself  up  !  We  should  be 
the  talk  of  the  county — of  the  whole  country  !" 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  this  before,  Helen?  It 
must  have  been  coming  on  for  some  time." 

"  George,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  And  I  had  heard 
you  say  such  terrible  things  about  the  duty  of  punish- 
ing crime." 

"  Good  gracious  !  Helen,  where  is  your  logic  ?  What 
has  crime  to  do  with  it  ?  Is  downright  stark,  staring 
madness  a  crime  ?  Any  one  with  half  an  eye  can  see  the 
boy'is  mad  !" 

Helen  saw  she  had  made  a  slip,  and  held  her  peace. 
George  went  on  : 

"  He  ought  to  be  shut  up." 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !"  Helen  almost  screamed,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  I've  done  my  best  to  persuade  him.  But  I  will  have 
another  try.  That  a  fellow  is  out  of  his  mind  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  be  unassailable  by  good  logic — that  is,  if 
you  take  him  on  his  own  admissions." 


THE  STRONG  MAN.  409 


"  !  fear  you  will  make  nothing  of  him,  George.  He  is 
set  upon  it,  and  I  don't  know  what  is  to  be  done." 

George  got  up,  went  back  to  Leopold,  and  plied  him 
with  the  very  best  of  arguments.  But  they  were  of  no 
avail.  There  was  but  one  door  out  of  hell,  and  that 
was  the  door  of  confession — let  what  might  lie  on  the 
other  side  of  it. 

"Who  knows,"  he  said,  "but  the  law  of  a  life  for  a 
life  may  have  come  of  compassion  for  the  murderer  }" 

"  Nonsense  !"  said  George.  "  It  comes  of  the  care  of 
society  over  its  own  constituent  parts." 

"  Whatever  it  came  from,  I  know  this,"  returned  Leo- 
pold, "  that  since  I  made  up  my  mind  to  confess,  I  am  a 
man  again." 

George  was  silent.  He  found  himself  in  that 
rare  condition  for  him — perplexity.  It  would  be 
most  awkward  if  the  thing  came  to  be  talked  of ! 
Some  would  even  be  fools  enough  to  believe  the  story  ! 
Entire  proof  of  madness  would  only  make  such  set  it 
down  as  the  consequence — or  if  pity  prevailed,  then  as 
the  cause — of  the  deed.  They  might  be  compelled  to 
shut  him  up  to  avoid  no  end  of  the  most  frightful  annoy- 
ances. But  Helen,  he  feared,  would  not  consent  to 
that.  And  then  his  story  was  so  circumstantial — and 
therefore  so  far  plausible — that  there  was  no  doubt  most 
magistrates  would  be  ready  at  once  to  commit  him  for 
trial — and  then  where  would  there  be  an  end  of  the 
most  offensive  embarrassments  ? 

Thus  George  reflected  uneasily.  But  at  length  an 
idea  struck  him. 


4IO  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  Well,"  he  said  lightly,  "if  you  will,  you  will.  We  must 
try  to  make  it  as  easy  for  you  as  we  can.  I  will  manage 
it,  and  go  with  you.  I  know  all  about  such  things,  you 
know.  But  it  won't  do  just  to-day.  If  you  were  to  go 
before  a  magistrate  looking  as  yuu  do  now,  he  would  not 
listen  to  a  word  yoa  uttered.  He  would  only  fancy  you 
in  a  fever,  and  send  you  to  bed.  Jf  you  are  quiet  to-day 
— let  me  see :  to-morrow  is  Sunday— and  if  you  are  in  the 
sam.e  mind  on  Monday,  I  will  take  you  to  Mr.  Hooker — 
he's  one  of  the  county  magistrates — ^.ndyou  shall  make 
your  statement  to  him." 

"  Thank  you.     I  should  like  Mr.  Wingfold  to  go  too." 

"  So  !"  said  George  to  himself.  "  By  all  means,"  he 
answered.     "  We  can  take  him  with  us." 

He  went  again  to  Helen. 

"This  is  a  most  awkward  business,"  he  said.  "  Poor 
girl  !  what  you  must  have  gone  through  with  him  !  I  had 
no  idea  !  But  I  see  my  way  out  of  it.  Keep  your  mind 
easy,  Helen.  I  do  see  what  I  can  do.  Only,  what's  the 
meaning  of  his  wanting  that  fellow  Wingfold  to  go  with 
him  ?  I  shouldn't  a  bit  wonder  now  if  it  all  came  of 
some  of  his  nonsense  !  At  least  it  may  be  that  ass  of 
a  curate  that  has  put  confession  in  his  head — to  save 
his  soul,  of  course  !     How  did  he  come  to  see  him  }" 

"  The  poor  boy  would  see  him." 

"  What  made  him  want  to  see  him  .^" 

Helen  held  her  peace.  She  saw  George  suspected  the 
truth. 

"  Well,  no  matter,"  said  George.  "  But  one  never 
knows  what  may  come  of  things.     We  ought  always 


THE   STRONG   MAN.  41 1 


to  look  well  ahead.  You  had  better  go  and  lie  down 
a  while,  Helen  ;  you  don't  seem  quite  yourself." 

"  I  am  afraid  to  leave  Leopold,"  she  answered.  "  He 
will  be  telling  aunt' and  everybody  now." 

"That  I  will  take  care  he  does  not,"  said  George. 
"  You  go  and  lie  down  a  while." 

Helen's  strength  had  been  sorely  tried ;  she  had 
borne  up  bravely  to  the  last;  but  now  that  she  could 
do  no  more,  and  her  brother  had  taken  himself  out  of 
her  hands,  her  strength  had  begun  to  give  way,  and,  al- 
most for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  in  daylight,  she  long- 
ed to  go  to  bed.  Let  George,  or  Wingfold,  or  who  would, 
see  to  the  wilful  boy  ;  she  had  done  what  she  could. 

She  gladly  yielded  to  George's  suggestion,  sought  an 
unoccupied  room,  bolted  the  door,  and  threw  herself 
upon  the  bed. 


CHAPTER   LXIV, 


GEORGE    AND    LEOPOLD. 


EORGE  went  again  to  Leopold's  room,  and  sat 
down  by  him.     The  youth  lay  with  his  eyes 
half  closed,  and  a  smile — a  faint,  sad  one — 
flickered   over   his   face.      He   was  asleep : 
from  infancy  he  had  slept  with  his  eyes  open. 

"  Emmeline  !"   he  murmured,  in  the   tone  of  one  who 
entreats  forgiveness. 

"  Strange    infatuation  !"     said    George    to     himself. 
'*  Even  his  dreams  are  mad.      Good  God  !  there  can't  be 
any  thing  in  it,  can  there  ?  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  were  not 
quite   safe   myself.     Mad-doctors  go   mad  themselves 
they  say.     I  wonder  what  sort  of  floating  sporule  carries 
the  infection — reaching  the  brain  by  the  nose,  I  fancy. 
Or  perhaps  there  is  latent  madness  in  us  all,  requiring 
only  the  presence  of  another  madness  to  set  it  free." 
Leopold  was  awake  and  looking  at  him. 
"  Is  it  a  very  bad  way  of  dying  ?"  he  asked. 
"  What  is,  old  boy  ?" 
"  Hanging." 


GEORGE   AND    LEOPOLD.  413 

"  Yes,  very  bad — choking,  you  know,"  answered 
George,  who  wanted  to  make  the  worst  of  it. 

"  I  thought  the  neck  was  broken  and  all  was  over," 
returned  Leopold,  with  a  slight  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  that's  how  it  ought  to  be  ;  but  it  fails  so  often  !" 

"  At  least  there's  no  more  hanging  in  public,  and 
that's  a  comfort,"  said  Leopold. 

"  What  a  queer  thing,"  said  George  to  himself,  "  that 
a  man  should  be  ready  to  hang  for  an  idea  !  Why 
should  he  not  do  his  best  to  enjo}'-  what  is  left  of  the  sun- 
light, seeing,  as  their  own  prophets  say,  the  night 
Cometh  when  no  man  can  work  }  A  few  more  whiffs 
of  his  cigar  before  it  goes  out  would  hurt  no  one.  It 
is  one  thing  to  hang  a  murderer,  and  quite  another  to 
hang  yourself  if  you  happen  to  be  the  man.  But  he's 
stark,  raving  mad,  and  must  be  humored.  Dance  upon 
nothing  for  an  idea !  Well,  it's  not  without  plenty 
of  parallels  in  history !  I  wonder  whether  his  one  idea 
would  give  way  now  if  it  were  brought  to  the  actual  test 
of  hanging!  It  is  a  pity  it  couldn't  be  tried,  just  for 
experiment's  sake.  But  a  strait-waistcoat  would  be 
better." 

Leopold's  acquaintance  with  George  had  been  but 
small,  and  of  his  favorite  theories  he  knew  nothing.  But 
he  had  always  known  that  he  was  not  merely  his  sister's 
cousin,  but  the  trusted  friend  both  of  her  and  of  her  aunt ; 
and  since  he  had  come  to  know  of  his  frequent  visits,  he 
had  begun  to  believe  him  more  to  Helen  than  a 
friend.  Hence  the  moment  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
confess,  he  was  ready  to  trust  George   entirely;   and 


414  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

although  he  was  disappointed  to  find  him  receive  his 
communication  in  a  spirit  so  different  from  that  of  Wing- 
fold  and  his  friend,  he  felt  no  motion  of  distrust  on  that 
account,  seeing  Helen,  who  had  been  to  him  true  as 
steel,  took  the  same  view  of  his  resolution. 

"  What  would  you  do  yourself  then,  George,  if  you 
had  committed  a  crime  like  mine  ?"  he  asked,  after  lying 
silent  for  a  while. 

None  of  George's  theories  had  greatly  taxed  his  im- 
agination. He  had  not  been  in  any  habit  of  fancying 
himself  in  this  or  that  situation — and  when  he  did,  it 
was  always  in  some  pleasant  one  of  victory  or  recogni- 
tion. Possible  conditions  of  humanity  other  than  pleas- 
ant he  had  been  content  to  regard  from  the  outside  and 
come  to  logical  conclusions  concerning,  without,  as  a 
German  would  say,  thinking  himself  into  them  at  all ; 
and  it  would  have  been  to  do  the  very  idea  of  George 
Bascombe  a  wrong  to  imagine  him  entangled  in  any  such 
net  of  glowing  wire  as  a  crime  against  human  society  ! 
Therefore,  although  for  most  questions  George  had 
always  an  answer  ready,  for  this  he  had  none  at  hand, 
and  required  a  moment,  and  but  a  moment,  to  think. 

"  I  would  say  to  myself,"  he  replied,  "  '  What  is  done 
is  done,  and  is  beyond  my  power  to  alter  or  help.' 
And  so  I  would  be  a  man,  and  bear  it — not  a  weakling, 
and  let  it  crush  me.  No,  by  Jove  !  it  shouldn't  crush 
me/" 

"Ah!    but     you     haven't    tried    the    weight    of  it, 
George !"  returned  Leopold. 
"  God  forbid  !"  said  George. 


GEORGE   AND    LEOPOLD.  415 

"God  forbid  !  indeed,"  rejoined  Leopold  ;  "  but  there 
'tis  done  for  all  his  forbidding  I" 

"What's  done  is  done,  God  or  devil,  and  must  be 
borne,  I  say,"  said  Bascombe,  stretching  out  his  legs. 
He  was  aware  it  sounded  heartless,  but  how  could  he 
help  it  ?    What  else  was  there  to  be  said  ? 

"  But  if  you  can't  bear  it  ?  If  it  is  driving  you  mad — 
mad— mad !  If  you  must  do  something  or  kill  your- 
self  ?"  cried  Leopold. 

"  You  haven't  done  your  best  at  trying  yet,"  returned 
George.  "  But  you  are  ill,  and  not  very  able  to  try,  I 
dare  say,  and  so  we  can't  help  it.  On  Monday  we  shall 
go  to  Mr.  Hooker,  and  see  what  he  says  to  it." 

He  rose  and  went  to  get  a  book  from  the  library.  On 
the  stair  he  met  the  butler  :  Mr.  Wingfold  had  called  to 
see  Mr.  Lingard. 

"  He  can't  see  him  to-day  ;  he  is  too  much  exhausted," 
said  Bascombe  ;  and  the  curate  left  the  house  thoughtful 
and  sorry,  feeling  as  if  a  vulture  had  settled  by  the  side 
of  the  youth— a  good-natured  vulture,  no  doubt,  but 
ncit  the  less  one  bent  on  picking  out  the  eyes  of  his 
mind. 

He  walked  away  along  the  street  towards  the  church 
with  downbent  head,  seeing  no  one.  He  entered  the 
churchyard  not  looking  whiLher  he  went :  a  lovely  soul 
was  in  pain  and  peril,  and  he  could  not  get  near  to  help 
it.  They  were  giving  it  choRe-damp  to  breathe,  instead 
of  mountain  air.  They  were  washing  its  sores  with  an- 
odynes instead  of  laying  them  open  with  the  knife  of 
honesty,  that  they  might  be  cleansed  and  healed.     He 


41 6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

found  himself  stumbling  among  the  level  gravestones, 
and  stopped  and  sat  down. 

He  sat  a  while,  seeming  to  think  of  nothing,  his  eyes 
resting  on  a  little  tuft  of  moss  that  shone  like  green 
gold  in  the  sunlight  on  the  shoulder  of  an  awkward 
little  cherub's  wing.  Ere  long  he  found  himself 
thinking  how  not  the  soul  of  Leopold  but  that  of 
Helen  was  in  chief  danger.  Poor  Leopold  had  the  ser- 
pent of  his  crime  to  sting  him  alive,  but  Helen  had  the 
vampire  of  an  imperfect  love  to  fan  her  asleep  with  the 
airs  of  a  false  devotion.  It  was  Helen  he  had  to  be 
anxious  about  more  than  Leopold. 

He  rose  and  walked  back  to  the  house. 

"  Can  I  see  Miss  Liiigard  }"  he  asked. 

It  was  a  maid  who  opened  the  door  this  time.  She 
showed  him  into  the  library,  and  went  to  inquire. 


CHAPTER  LXV. 


WINGFOLD    AND    HELEN. 


HEN  Helen  lay  down,  she  tried  to  sleep  ;  but 
she  could  not  even  lie  still.  For  all  her 
preference  of  George  and  his  counsel,  and 
her  hope  in  the  view  he  took  of  Leopold's 
case,  the  mere  knowledge  that  in  the  next  room  her 
cousin  sat  by  her  brother  made  her  anxious  and  restless. 
At  first  it  was  the  bare  feeling  that  they  were  to- 
together — the  thing  she  had  for  so  long  taken  such  pains 
to  prevent.  Next  came  the  fear  lest  Leopold  should 
succeed  in  persuading  George  that  he  was  really  guilty 
■ — in  w^hich  case  what  should  George,  the  righteous  man, 
counsel  ?  And,  last  and  chief  of  all,  what  hope  of  peace 
to  Leopold  could  he  in  any  of  iiis  counsel — except,  inaeed, 
he  led  him  up  to  the  door  of  death  and  urged  him  into 
the  nothingness  behind  it  ?  Then  Avhat  if  George  should 
be  wrong,  and  there  was  so.nething  behind  it?  What- 
ev^er  sort  of  a  something  it  might  be,  could  the  teaching 
of  George  be  in  the  smallest  measure  a  preparation  for 
it }     Were  it  not  better,  so  far  as  the  possibiliiy  which 


4l8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

remained  untouched  by  any  of  George's  arguments  was 
concerned,  that  Leopold  should  die  believing  after 
Mr.  Wingfold's  fashion,  and  not  disbelieving  after 
George's  ?  If  then  there  were  nothing  behind,  he  would 
be  nothing  the  worse  ;  if  there  were,  the  curate  might 
have  in  some  sort  prepared  him  for  it. 

And  now  first  she  began  to  feel  that  she  was  a  little 
afraid  of  her  cousin — that  she  had  yielded  to  his  in- 
fluence, or  rather  allowed  him  to  assume  upon  the 
possession  of  influence,  until  she  was  aware  of  some- 
thing that  somewhere  galled.  He  was  a  very  good 
fellow,  but  was  he  one  fit  to  rule  her  life  ?  Would 
her  nature  consent  to  look  up  to  his  always,  if  she 
were  to  marry  him  ?  But  the  thought  only  flitted  like 
a  cloud  across  the  surface  of  her  mind,  for  all  her  care 
was  Leopold,  and,  alas  !  with  him  she  was  now  almost 
angry,  and  it  grieved  her  sorely. 

All  these  feelings  together  had  combined  to  form 
her  mood,  when  her  maid  came  to  the  door  with  the 
message  that  Mr.  Wingfold  was  in  the  library.  She  re- 
solved at  once  to  see  him. 

The  curate's  heart  trembled  a  little  as  he  waited  for 
her.  He  was  not  quite  sure  that  it  was  his  business  to 
tell  her  her  duty,  yet  something  seemed  to  drive  him  to 
it :  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  hergoing  on  in  the  path 
of  crookedness.  It  is  no  easy  matter  for  one  man  to  tell 
another  his  duty  in  the  simplest  relations  of  life  ;  and 
here  was  a  man,  naturally  shy  and  self-distrustful,  dar- 
ing to  rebuke  and  instruct  a  woman  whose  presence  was 


WINGFOLD   AND    HELEN.  419 

mighty  upon  him,  and  whose  influence  was  tenfold 
heightened  by  the  suffering  that  softened  her  beauty  ! 

She  entered,  troubled,  yet  stately  ;  doubtful,  yet  with 
a  kind  of  half-trust  in  her  demeanor  ;  white  and  blue- 
eyed,  with  pained  mouth  and  a  droop  of  weariness  and 
suffering  in  eyelids  and  neck — a  creature  to  be  wor- 
shipped, if  only  for  compassion  and  dignified  distress. 

Thomas  Wingfold's  nature  was  one  more  than  usually 
bent  towards  helpfulness,  but  his  early  histor)',  his  lack 
of  friends,  of  confidence,  of  convictions,  of  stand  or  aim 
in  life,  had  hitherto  prevented  the  outcome  of  that  ten- 
dency. But  now,  like  issuing  water,  which,  having  found 
way,  gathers  force  momently,  the  pent-up  ministration 
of  his  soul  was  asserting  itself.  Now  that  he  under- 
stood more  of  the  human  heart,  and  recognized  in  this 
and  that  human  countenance  the  bars  of  a  cage  through 
which  peeped  an  imprisoned  life,  his  own  heart  burned  in 
him  with  the  love  of  the  helpless  ;  and  if  there  was  min- 
gled therein  any  thing  of  the  ambition  of  benefaction,  any 
thing  of  the  love  of  power,  any  thing  of  self-recommen- 
dation, pride  of  influence,  or  desire  to  be  a  centre  of  good, 
and  rule  in  a  small  kingdom  of  the  aided  and  aiding, 
these  marshygrowthshadthe  fairest  chance  of  dying  an 
obscure  death  ;  for  the  one  sun  potent  on  the  wheat  for 
life  and  on  the  tares  for  death  is  the  face  of  Christ  Jesus, 
and  in  that  presence  Wingfold  lived  more  and  more 
from  day  to  day. 

And  now  came  Helen,  who,  more  than  any  one  whose 
history  he  had  yet  learned  — more  perhaps  than  even  her 
brother — needed  such  help  as  he  confidently  hoped  he 


420  THOMAS   WINGFOLD.    CURATE. 

knew  now  where  she  might  find  !  But  when  he  saw  her 
stand  before  him  wounded  and  tearful  and  proud,  regard 
ing  his  behavior  in  respect  of  her  brother  as  cruel  and 
heartless  ;  when  he  felt  in  his  very  soul  that  she  was 
jealous  of  his  influence,  that  she  disliked  and  even  de- 
spised him,  it  was  only  with  a  strong  effort  he  avoided 
assuming  a  manner  correspondent  to  the  idea  of  himself 
he  saw  reflected  in  her  mind,  and  submitting  himself,  as 
it  were,  to  be  what  she  judged  him. 

When,  however,  by  a  pure  effort  of  will,  he  rose  above 
this  weakness  and  looked  her  full  and  clear  in  the  face, 
a  new  jealousy  of  himself  arose  :  she  stood  there  so  love- 
ly, so  attractive,  so  tenfold  womanly  in  her  misery,  that 
he  found  he  must  keep  a  stern  watch  upon  himself  lest 
interest  in  her  as  a  woman  should  trespass  on  the 
sphere  of  simple  humanity,  wherein  with  favoring  dis- 
tinction is  recognized  neither  Jew  nor  Greek,  prince 
nor  peasant — not  even  man  or  woman  ;  only  the  one  hu- 
man heart  that  can  love  and  suffer.  It  aided  him  in 
this  respect,  however,  that  his  inherent  modesty  caused 
him  to  look  up  to  Helen  as  to  a  suffering  goddess,  noble, 
grand,  lovely,  only  ignorant  of  the  one  secret  of  which  he, 
haunting  the  steps  of  the  Unbound  Prometheus,  had 
learned  a  few  syllables,  broken  yet  potent,  which  he 
would  fain,  could  he  find  how,  communicate  in  their  po- 
tency to  her.  And  besides,  to  help  her  now  looking  upon 
him  from  the  distant  height  of  conscious  superiority,  he 
must  persuade  her  to  what  she  regarded  as  an  unendura- 
ble degradation  !   The  circumstances  assuredly  protected 


WINGFOLD    AND   HELEN.  421 


him  from  any  danger  of  offering  her  such  expression  of 
sympathy  as  might  not  have  been  welcome  to  her. 

It  is  true  that  the  best  help  a  woman  can  get  is  from  a 
right  man ;  equally  true  with  its  converse  ;  but  let 
the  man  who  ventures  take  heed.  Unless  he  is  able  to 
counsel  a  woman  to  the  hardest  thing  that  bears  the 
name  of  duty,  let  him  not  dare  give  advice  even  to  her 
asking. 

Helen,  however,  had  not  come  to  ask  advice  of 
Wingfold.  She  was  in  no  such  mood.  She  was  indeed 
weary  of  a  losing  strife,  and,  only  for  a  glimmer  of  pos- 
sible help  from  her  cousin,  saw  ruin  inevitable  before 
her.  But  this  revival  of  hope  in  George  had  roused 
afresh  her  indignation  at  the  intrusion  of  Wingfold  with 
what  she  chose  to  lay  to  his  charge  as  unsought  coun- 
sel. At  the  same  time,  through  all  the  indignation, 
terror,  and  dismay,  something  within  her  murmured  au- 
dibly enough  that  the  curate,  and  not  her  cousin,  was  the 
guide  who  could  lead  her  brother  where  grew  the  herb 
of  what  peace  might  yet  be  had.  It  was  therefore  with 
a  sense  of  bewilderment,  discord,  and  uncertainty  that 
she  now  entered  the  library. 

Wingfold  rose,  made  his  obeisance,  and  advanced  a 
step  or  two.  He  would  not  offer  a  hand  that  might  be 
unwelcome,  and  Helen  did  not  offer  hers.  She  bent  her 
neck  graciously,  and  motioned  him  to  be  seated. 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Lingard  is  not  worse,"  he  said. 

Helen  started.  Had  any  thing  happened  while  she 
had  been  away  from  hira  ? 


422  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"No.  Why  should  he  be  worse?"  she  answered. 
"  Have  they  told  you  any  thing  ?" 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  ;  only,  as  I  was  not  allowed 
to  see  him — " 

"  I  left  him  with  Mr.  Bascombe  half  an  hour  ago," 
she  said,  willing  to  escape  the  imputation  of  having  re- 
fused him  admittance. 

Wingfold  gave  an  involuntary  sigh. 

"  You  do  not  think  that  gentleman's  company  desira- 
ble for  my  brother,  I  presume,"  she  said,  with  a  smile 
so  lustreless  that  it  seemed  bitter.  "  He  won't  do  him 
any  harm — at  least  I  do  not  think  you  need  fear  it." 

"Why  not.''  No  one  in  your  profession  can  think  his 
opinions  harmless,  and  certainly  he  will  not  suppress 
them." 

"A  man  with  such  a  weight  on  his  soul  as  your 
brother  carries  will  not  be  ready  to  fancy  it  lightened 
by  having  lumps  of  lead  thrown  upon  it.  An  easy 
mind  may  take  a  shroud  on  its  shoulders  for  wings, 
but  when  trouble  comes  and  it  wants  to  fly,  then  it 
knows  the  difference.  Leopold  will  not  be  misled  by 
Mr.  Bascombe." 

Helen  grew  paler.  She  would  have  him  misled — so 
far  as  not  to  betray  himself. 

"  I  am  far  more  afraid  of  your  influence  than  of  his," 
added  the  curate. 

"  What  bad  influence  do  you  suppose  me  likely  to  ex- 
ercise ?"  asked  Helen,  with  a  cold  smile. 

"The  bad  influence  of  wishing  him  to  act  upon  your 
conscience  instead  of  his  own." 


WINGFOLD    AND    HELEN.  423 


"  Is  my  conscience  then  a  worse  one  than  Leopold's  ?" 
she  asked,  but  as  if  she  felt  no  interest  in  the  answer. 

"  It  is  not  his,  and  that  is  enough.  His  own,  and  no 
other,  can  tell  him  what  to  do." 

"  Why  not  leave  him  to  it,  then  ?"  she  said  bitterly. 

"  That  is  what  I  want  of  you,  Miss  Lingard.  I  would 
have  you  lear  to  touch  the  life  of  the  poor  youth." 

"  Touch  his  life  !  I  would  give  him  mine  to  save  it. 
Vou  counsel  him  to  throw  it  away  !" 

"  Alas  !  what  different  meanings  we  put  on  the  word  ! 
You  call  the  few  years  he  may  have  to  live  in  this  world 
his  life  ;  while  I — " 

"  While  you  count  it  the  millions  of  which  you  know 
nothing — somewhere  whence  no  one  has  ever  returned 
to  bring  any  news  ! — a  wretched  life  at  best,  if  it  be 
such  as  you  represent  it." 

"  Pardon  me,  that  is  merely  what  you  suppose  I  mean 
by  the  word.  I  do  not  mean  that ;  I  mean  some- 
thing altogether  different.  When  I  spoke  of  his 
life,  I  thought  nothing  about  here  or  there,  now 
or  then.  You  will  see  what  I  mean  if  you  think  how 
the  life  came  back  to  his  eye  and  the  color  to  his  cheek 
the  moment  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do  what 
had  long  seemed  his  duty.  When  I  saw  him  again,  that 
light  was  still  in  his  eyes  and  a  feeble  hope  looked  out 
of  every  feature.  Existence,  from  a  demon-haunted  va- 
por, had  begun  to  change  to  a  morning  of  spring  ;  life, 
the  life  of  conscious  well-being,  of  law  and  order  and 
peace,  had  begun  to  dawn  in  obedience  and  self-renun- 
ciation ;   his  resurrection  was  at  hand.     But  you  then. 


424  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

and  now  you  and  Mr.  Bascombe,  would  stop  this  resur- 
rection ;  you  would  seat  yourselves  upon  his  gravestone 
to  keep  him  down!  And  why  ?  Lest  he,  lest  you,  lest 
your  family  should  be  disgraced  by  letting  him  out  of 
his  grave  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  Sir  !"  cried  Helen  indignantly,  drawing  herself  to  her 
full  height  and  something  more. 

•  Wingfold  took  one  step  nearer  to  her.  "  My  calling  is 
to  speak  the  truth,"  he  said  ;  "and  I  am  bound  to  warn 
you  that  you  will  never  be  at  peace  in  your  own  soul  un- 
til you  love  your  brother  aright." 

"  Love  my  brother  !"  Helen  almost  screamed.  "  I 
would  die  for  him." 

"  Then  at  least  let  your  pride  die  for  him,"  said  Wing- 
fold,  not  without  indignation. 

Helen  left  the  room,  and  Wingfold  the  house. 

She  had  hardly  shut  the  door  and  fallen  again  upon 
the  bed,  when  she  began  to  know  in  her  heart  that  the 
curate  was  right.  But  the  more  she  knew  it,  the  less 
would  she  confess  it  even  to  herself  :  it  was  unendura- 
ble. 


CHAPTER    LXVI. 


A    REVIEW. 


HE  curate  walked  hurriedly  home  and  seated 
himself  at  his  table,  where  yet  lay  his  Greek 
Testament  open  at  the  passage  he  had  been 
pondering  for  his  sermon.  Alas  I  all  he  had 
then  been  thinking  with  such  fervor  had  vanished.  He 
knew  his  inspiring  text,  but  the  rest  was  gone.  Worst  of 
all,  feeling  was  gone  with  thought,  and  was,  for  the  time 
at  least,  beyond  recall.  Righteous  as  his  anger  was,  it 
had  ruffled  the  mirror  of  his  soul  till  it  could  no  long- 
er reflect  heavenly  things.  He  rose,  caught  up  his  New 
Testament,  and  went  to  the  churchyard.  It  was  a  still 
place,  and  since  the  pains  of  the  new  birth  had  come  up- 
on him,,  he  had  often  sought  the  shelter  of  its  calm.  A 
few  yards  from  the  wall  of  the  rectory-garden  stood  an 
old  yew-tree,  and  a  little  nearer  on  one  side  was  a  small 
thicket  of  cypress  :  between  these  and  the  wall  was  an 
ancient  stone  upon  which  he  generally  seated  himself. 
It  already  had  begun  to  be  called  the  curate's  chair, 
Most  imagined  him  drawn  thither  by  a  clerical  love  of 


426  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATF:. 


gloom,  but  in  that  case  he  could  scarcely  have  had  much 
delight  in  seeing  the  sky  through  the  dark  foliage  of  the 
yew  :  he  thought  the  parts  so  seen  looked  more  divine- 
ly blue  than  any  of  the  rest.  Ha  would  have  admitted, 
however,  that  he  found  quiet  for  the  soul  as  well  as  the 
body  upon  this  edge  of  the  world,  this  brink  of  the  gulf 
that  swallowed  the  ever-pouring  ever-vanishing,  Niagara 
of  human  life.  On  the  stone  he  now  seated  himself,  and 
fell  a-musing. 

What  a  change  had  come  upon  him — slow  indeed,  yet 
how  vast — since  the  night  when  he  sat  in  the  same 
churchyard  indignant  and  uneasy,  with  the  words  of 
Bascombe  like  hot  coals  in  his  heart  !  He  had  been 
made  ashamed  of  himself  who  had  never  thought  much 
of  himself,  but  the  more  he  had  lost  of  worthiness  in 
his  own  eyes,  the  more  he  had  gained  in  v/orth  ;  and 
the  more  his  poor  satisfaction  with  himself  had  died 
out,  the  more  the  world  had  awaked  around  him.  For 
it  must  be  remembered  that  a  little  conceit  is  no  more 
to  be  endured  than  a  great  one,  but  must  be  swept 
utterly  away.  Sky  and  wind  and  water  and  birds  and 
trees  said  to  him,  "  Forget  thyself,  and  we  will  think  of 
thee.  Sing  no  more  to  thyself  thy  foolish  songs  of 
decay,  and  we  will  all  sing  to  thee  of  love  and  hope  and 
faith  and  resurrection."  Earth  and  air  had  grown  full  of 
hints  and  sparkles  and  vital  motions,  as  if  between 
them  and  his  soul  an  abiding  community  of  fundamen- 
tal existence  had  manifested  itself.  He  had  never,  in 
the  old  days  that  were  so  near  and  yet  seemed  so  far 
behind  him,  consciously  cared   for  the  sunlight:  now 


A   REVIEW..  427 


even  the  shadows  were  marvellous  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
glitter  of  the  golden  weather-cock  on  the  tower  was  like 
a  cry  of  the  prophet  Isaiah.  High  and  alone  in  the  clear 
blue  air  it  swung,  an  endless  warning  to  him  that  veers 
with  the  wind  of  the  world,  the  words  ot  men,  the  sum- 
mer breezes  of  their  praise,  or  the  bitter  blasts  of  their 
wintry  blame  ;  it  was  no  longer  to  him  a  cock  of  the 
winds,  but  a  cock  of  the  truth — a  Peter-cock,  that  crew 
aloud  in  golden  shine  its  rebuke  of  cowardice  and  lying. 
Never  before  had  he  sought  acquaintance  with  the 
flowers  that  came  dreaming  up  out  of  the  earth  in  the 
woods  and  the  lanes  like  a  mi;t  of  loveliness,  but  the 
spring-time  came  in  his  own  soul,  and  then  he  knew  the 
children  of  the  spring.  And  as  the  joy  of  the  revivn'ng 
world  found  its  way  into  the  throats  of  the  birds,  so  did 
the  spring  in  his  reviving  soul  find  its  way  into  the  chan- 
nels of  thought  and  speech,  and  issue  in  utterance  both 
rhythmic  and  melodious.  But  not  in  any,  neither  in  all 
of  these  things  lay  the  chief  sign  and  embodiment  of  the 
change  he  recognized  in  itself.  It  was  this  :  that  whereas 
in  former  times  the  name  Christ  had  been  to  him  little 
more  than  a  dull  theological  symbol,  the  thought  of  him 
and  of  his  thoughts  was  now  constantly  with  him  ;  ever 
and  anon  some  fresh  light  would  break  from  the  cloudy 
halo  that  enwrapped  his  grandeur  ;  ever  was  he  growing 
more  the  Son  of  Man  to  his  loving  heart,  ever  more  the 
Son  of  God  to  his  aspiring  spirit.  Testimony  had 
merged  almost  in  vision  :  he  saw  into,  and  partly  under- 
stood, the  perfection  it  presented  :  he  looked  upon  the 
face  of  God  and  lived.     Oltener  and  oftener,  as  the  days 


428  THOMAS  WINCFOLD,  CURATE. 


passed,  did  it  seem  as  if  the  man  were  by  his  side,  and 
at  times,  in  the  stillness  of  the  summer  eve,  when  he 
walked  alone,  it  seemed  almost,  as  thoughts  of  revealing 
arose  in  his  heart,  that  the  Master  himself  was  teaching 
him  in  spoken  words.  What  need  now  to  rack  his  soul 
in  following  the  dim-seen,  ever-vanishing  paths  of 
metaphysics  ?  He  had  but  to  obey  the  prophet  of  life,  the 
man  whose  being  and  domg  and  teaching  were  blended 
in  one  three-fold  harmony — or,  rather,  were  the  three- 
fold analysis  of  one  white  essence — he  had  but  to  obey 
him,  haunt  his  footsteps,  and  hearken  after  the  sound  of 
his  spirit,  and  all  truth  would  in  healthy  process  be  un- 
folded in  himself.  What  philosophy  could  carry  him 
where  Jesus  would  carry  his  obedient  friends — into  his 
own  peace,  namely,  far  above  all  fear  and  all  hate,  where 
his  soul  should  breathe  such  a  high  atmosphere  of 
strength  at  once  and  repose,  that  he  should  love  even  his 
enemies,  and  that  with  no  such  love  as  condescendingly 
overlooks,  but  with  the  real,  hearty,  and  self-involved 
affection  that  would  die  to  give  them  the  true  life  ! 
Alas  !  how  far  was  he  from  such  perfection  now — from 
such  a  martyrdom,  lovely  as  endless,  in  the  consuming 
fire  of  God  !  And  at  the  thought,  he  fell  from  the 
heights  of  his  contemplation — but  was  caught  in  the 
thicket  of  prayer. 

By  the  time  he  reached  his  lodging,  the  glow  had 
vanished,  but  the  mood  remained.  He  sat  down  and 
wrote  the  first  sketch  of  the  following  verses,  then 
found  that  his  sermon  had  again  drawn  nigh  and  was 
within  the  reach  of  his  spiritual  tentacles. 


A   REVIEW.  429 


Father,.!  cry  to  thee  for  bread, 

With  hungered  longing,  eager  prayer  ; 

Thou  hear'st,  and  givest  me  instead 
More  hunger  and  a  half  despair. 

0  Lord  !  how  long?     My  days  decline 
My  youth  is  lapped  in  memories  old 

1  need  not  bread  alone,  but  wine — 

See,  cup  and  hand  to  thee  I  hold. 

And  yet  thou  givest  :  thanks,  O  Lord  ! 

That  still  my  heart  with  hunger  faints  ! 
The  day  will  come  when  at  thy  board 

I  sit  forgetting  all  my  plaints. 

If  rain  must  come  and  winds  must  blow. 
And  I  pore  long  o'er  dim-seen  chart, 

Yet,  Lord,  let  not  the  hunger  go, 
And  keep  the  faintness  at  my  heart. 


CHAPTER   LXVII. 


A    SERMON    TO    LEOPOLD. 


HEN  the  curate  stood  up  to  read,  his  eyes  as 
of  themselves  sought  Mrs.  Ramshcrn's  pew. 
There  sat  Helen,  with  a  look  that  revealed, 
he  thought,  more  of  determination  and  less 
of  suffering.  Her  aunt  was  by  her  side,  cold  and  glar- 
ing, an  ecclesiastical  puss,  ready  to  spring  upon  any 
small  church-mouse  that  dared  squeak  in  its  own  murine 
v/ay.  Bascombe  was  not  visible,  and  that  was  a  relief. 
For  an  unbelieving  face,  whether  the  dull,  dining  coun- 
tenance of  a  mayor  or  the  keen,  searching  countenance 
of  a  barrister,  is  a  sad  bone  in  the  throat  of  utterance, 
and  has  to  be  of  set  will  passed  over,  and,  if  that  may  be, 
forgotten.  Wingfold  tried  hard  to  forget  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn's,  and  one  or  two  besides,  and  by  the  time  he  came 
to  the  sermon,  thought  of  nothing  but  human  hearts, 
their  agonies,  and  Him  who  came  to  call  them  to  him. 
"  /  came  not  to  call  the  righteous,  but  sinners  to  repentance. 
"  Was  it  then  of  the  sinners  first  our  Lord  thought  ere 
he  came  from  the  bosom  of  the   Father  ?     Did  the  per- 


\/ 


A    SERMON    TO    LEOPOLD.  43] 


feet  will  embrace,  in  the  all-atoning  tenderness  of  the 
divine  heart,  the  degraded,  disfigured,  defiled,  distorted 
thing,  whose  angel  is  too  blind  ever  to  seethe  face  of 
its  Father?  Through  all  the  hideous  filth  of  the  charnel- 
house  which  the  passions  had  heaped  upon  her,  did  the 
Word  recognize  the  bound,  wing-lamed,  feather-draggled 
Psyche,  panting  in  horriblest  torture  ?  Did  he  have  a 
desire  to  the  work  of  his  hands,  the  child  of  his  father's 
heart,  and  therefore,  strong  in  compassion,  speed  to  the 
painful  rescue  of  hearts  like  his  own  ?  That  purity  and 
defilement  should  thus  meet  across  all  the  great  dividing 
gulf  of  law  and  morals  !  The  friend  of  publicans  and 
sinners  '  Think  :  he  was  absolutely  friendly  with  them  ! 
was  not  shocked  at  them  !  held  up  no  hands  of  dismay  ! 
Only  they  must  do  so  no  more. 

"  If  he  were  to  come  again  visibl}-,  now,  which  do  you 
think  would  come  crowding  around  him  in  greater 
numbers — the  respectable  church-goers  or  the  people 
from  the  slums  .^  I  do  not  know.  I  dare  not  judge.  But 
the  fact  that  the  church  draws  so  few  of  those  that  are 
despised,  of  those  whom  Jesus  drew  and  to  whom  most 
expressly  he  came,  gives  ground  for  question  as  to  how 
far  the  church  is  like  her  Lord.  Certainly  many  a  one 
would  find  the  way  to  the  feet  of  the  Master  from  whom 
the  respectable  church-goer,  the  Pharisee  of  our  time, 
and  the  priest  who  stands  on  his  profession,  would  draw 
back  with  disgust.  And  doubtless  it  would  be  in  the 
religious  world  that  a  man  like  Jesus,  who,  without  a 
professional  education,  a  craftsman  by  birth  and  early 
training,  uttered   scarce  a  phrase  indorsed  by  clerical 


432  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


use,  or  a  word  of  the  religious  cant  of  the  day,  but 
taught  in  simplest  natural  forms  the  eternal  facts  of  faith 
and  hope  and  love,  would  meet  with  the  chief  and  perhaps 
the  only  bitier  opponents  of  his  doctrine  and  life. 

"  But  did  our  Lord  not  call  the  righteous  ?  Did  he  not 
call  honest  men  about  him — James  and  John  and  Simon 
— sturdy  fisher-folk,  who  faced  the  night  and  the  storm, 
worked  hard,  fared  roughly,  lived  honestly,  and  led  good, 
cleanly  lives  with  father  and  mother  or  with  wife  and 
children  ?  I  do  not  know  that  he  said  anything  special 
to  convince  them  that  they  were  sinners  before  he  called 
them.  But  it  is  to  be  remarked  that  one  of  the  first 
effects  of  his  company  upon  Simon  Peter  was  that  the 
fisherman  grew  ashamed  of  himself,  and  while  ashamed 
was  yet  possessed  with  an  impulse  of  openness  and  hon- 
esty no  less  than  passionate.  The  pure  man  should  not 
be  deceived  as  to  what  sort  of  company  he  was  in  ! 
'Depart  from  me,  for  I  am  a  sinful  man,  O  Lord  !  '  I 
would  I  could  clearly  behold  with  my  mind's  eye  what 
he  then  saw  in  Jesus  that  drew  from  him  that  cry  !  He 
knew  him  for  the  Messiah  :  what  was  the  working  of  the 
carpenter  upon  the  fisherman  that  satisfied  him  of  the 
fact?  Would  the  miracle  have  done  it  but  for  the  pre- 
vious talk  from  the  boat  to  the  people .?  I  think  not. 
Anyhow,  St.  Peter  judged  himself  among  the  sinners, 
and  we  may  be  sure  that  if  these  fishers  had  been  self- 
satisfied  men,  they  would  not  have  left  all  and  gone 
after  Him  who  called  them.  Still  it  would  hardly  seem 
that  it  was  specially  as  sinners  that  he  did  so.  Again, 
did  not  men  such  as  the  Lord  himself  regarded  as  right- 


A    SERMON    TO    LEOPOLD.  433 

eous  come  to  him — Nicodemus,  Nathaniel,  the  young 
man  who  came  running  and  kneeled  to  him,  the  scribe 
who  was  not  far  from  the  kingdom,  the  centurion,  m 
whom  he  found  more  faith  than  in  any  Jew,  he  who  had 
built  a  synagogue  in  Capernaum,  and  sculptured  on  its 
lintel  the  pot  of  manna?  These  came  to  him,  and  we 
know  he  was  ready  to  receive  them.  But  he  knew  such 
would  always  come,  drawn  of  the  Father  ;  they  did  not 
want  much  calling ;  they  were  not  so  much  in  his 
thoughts ;  therefore,  he  was  not  troubled  about  them  ; 
they  were  as  the  ninety-and-nine,  the  elder  son  at  home, 
the  money  in  the  purse.  Doubtless  they  had  much  to 
learn,  were  not  yet  in  the  kingdom,  but  they  were 
crowding  about  its  door.  If  I  set  it  forth  aright  I  know 
not,  but  thus  it  looks  to  me.  And  one  thing  I  can  not 
forget — it  meets  me  in  the  face — that  some  at  least — who 
knows  if  not  all.^ — of  the  purest  of  men  have  counted 
themselves  the  greatest  sinners  !  Neither  can  I  forget 
that  other  saying  of  our  Lord,  a  stumbling-block  to 
many — our  Lord  was  not  so  careful  as  perhaps  some 
would  have  had  him,  lest  men  should  stumble  at  the 
truth — The  first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last  first.  While  our 
Lord  spoke  the  words,  The  time  coineth  that  whosoever 
killethyou  will  think  that  he  doeth  God  service,  even  then 
was  Saul  of  Tarsus  at  the  feet  of  Gamaliel,  preparing  lo 
do  God  that  service  ;  but  like  one  born  out  of  due  time,  ' 
after  all  the  rest  he  saw  the  Lord,  and  became  the  chief 
in  labor  and  suffering.  Thus  the  last  became  first.  And 
I  bethink  me  that  the  beloved  disciple,  he  who  leaned 
on  the  bosom  of  the  Lord,  who  was  bolder  to  ask  him 


434  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

than  any — with  the  boldness  of  love,  he  whom  the  meek 
and  lowly  called  a  Son  of  Thunder,  was  the  last  of  all  to 
rejoin  the  Master  in  the  mansions  of  his  Father.  Last 
or  first — if  only  we  are  with  him  !  One  thing  is  clear: 
that  in  the  order  of  the  Lord's  business,  first  came 
sinners. 

"  Who  that  reflects  can  fail  to  see  this  at  least :  that  a 
crime  brings  a  man  face  to  face  with  the  reality  of 
things  ?  He  who  knows  himself  a  sinner — I  do  not 
mean  as  one  of  the  race  :  the  most  self-righteous  man 
will  allow  that  as  a  man  he  is  a  sinner — he  to  whom,  in  the 
words  of  the  communion-service,  the  remembrance  of 
his  sins  is  grievous,  and  the  burden  of  them  intolerable, 
knows  in  himself  that  he  is  a  lost  man.  He  can  no 
more  hold  up  his  head  among  his  kind  ;  he  can  not  look 
a  woman  or  a  child  in  the  face  ;  he  can  not  be  left  alone 
with  the  chaos  of  his  thoughts  and  the  monsters  it  mo- 
mently breeds.  The  joys  of  his  childhood,  the  delights 
of  existence,  are  gone  from  him.  There  dwells  within 
him  an  ever-present  judgment  and  fiery  indignation. 
Such  a  man  will  start  at  the  sound  of  pardon  and  peace 
even  as  the  camel  of  the  desert  at  the  scent  of  water. 
Therefore  surely  is  such  a  man  nearer  to  the  gate  of  the 
kingdom  than  he  against  whom  the  world  has  never 
wagged  a  tongue,  who  never  sinned  against  a  social  cus- 
tom even,  and  has  as  easy  a  conscience  as  the  day  he  was 
born,  but  who  knows  so  little  of  himself  that,  while  he 
thinks  he  is  good  enough, he  carries  within  him  the  capac- 
ity and  possibility  of  every  cardinal  sin,  waiting  only  the 
special  and  fitting  temptation  which,  like  the  match  to 


A   SERMON   TO    LEOPOLD.  435 

the  charged  mine,  shall  set  all  in  a  roar  !  Of  his  danger  he 
knows  nothing,  never  dreams  of  praying  against  it,  takes 
his  seat  in  his  pew  Sunday  after  Sunday  with  his  family, 
nor  ever  murmurs  Lead  us  not  info  temptation  with  the 
least  sense  that  temptation  is  a  frightful  thing,  but  re- 
peats and  responds  and  listens  in  perfect  self-satisfac- 
tion, doubting  never  that  a  world  made  up  of  such  as 
he  must  be  a  pleasant  sight  in  the  eyes  of  the  Perfect. 
There  are  men  who  will  never  see  what  they  are  capa- 
ble or  in  danger  of  until  they  have  committed  some 
fearful  wrong.  Nay,  there  are  some  for  whom  even 
that  is  not  enough  :  they  must  be  found  out  by  their 
fellow-men,  and  scorned  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
before  they  can  or  will  admit  or  comprehend  their  own 
disgrace.     And  there  are  worse  still  than  these. 

"  But  a  man  may  be  oppressed  by  his  sins,  and  hardly 
know  what  it  is  that  oppresses  him.  There  is  more  of 
sin  in  our  burdens  than  we  are  ourselves  aware.  It 
needs  not  that  we  should  have  committed  any  griev^ous 
fault.  Do  we  recognize  in  ourselves  that  which  needs 
to  be  set  right,  that  of  which  we  ought  to  be  ashamed, 
something  which,  were  we  lifted  above  all  worldly 
anxieties,  would  yet  keep  us  uneasy,  dissatisfied,  take 
the  essential  gladness  out  of  the  sunlight,  make  the  fair 
face  of  the  earth  indifferent  to  us,  a  trustful  glance  a 
discomposing  look,  and  death  a  darkness  ?  I  say  to  the 
man  who  feels  thus,  whatever  he  may  have  done  or  left 
undone,  he  is  not  so  far  from  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
but  that  he  may  enter  thereinto  if  he  will. 

"And  if  there    be  here    any  soul    withered  up   with 


436  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

dismay,  torn  with  horrible  wonder  that  he  should 
have  done  the  deed  which  he  yet  hath  done,  to  him  I 
say,  •  Flee  from  the  self  that  hath  sinned  and  hide 
thee  with  Christ  in  God.'  Or,  if  the  words  sound 
to  thee  as  the  words  of  some  unknown  tongue,  and 
I  am  to  thee  as  one  that  beateth  the  air,  I  say  instead, 
Call  aloud  in  thy  agony,  that,  if  there  be  a  God, 
he  may  hear  the  voice  of  his  child  and  put  forth 
his  hand  and  lay  hold  upon  him,  and  rend  from  him 
the  garment  that  clings  and  poisons  and  burns, 
squeeze  the  black  drop  from  his  heart,  and  set  him 
weeping  like  a  summer  rain.  O  blessed,  holy,  lovely 
repentance  to  which  the  Son  of  Man,  the  very  root  and 
man  of  men,  hath  come  to  call  us  !  Good  it  is,  and  I 
know  it.  Come  and  repent  with  me,  O  heart  wounded 
by  thine  own  injustice  and  wrong,  and  together  we  will 
seek  the  merciful !  Think  not  about  thy  sin  so  as  to 
make  it  either  less  or  greater  in  thine  own  eyes.  Bring  it 
to  Jesus,  and  let  him  show  thee  how  vile  a  thing  it  is. 
And  leave  it  to  him  to  judge  thee,  sure  that  he  will 
judge  thee  justly,  extenuating  nothing  ;  for  he  hath  to 
cleanse  thee  utterly,  and  yet  forgetting  no  smallest  ex- 
cuse that  may  cover  the  amazement  of  thy  guilt,  or  wit- 
ness for  thee  that  not  with  open  eyes  didst  thou  do  the 
deed.  At  the  last  he  cried.  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
know  not  what  they  do.  For  his  enemies  the  truth  should 
be  spoken,  his  first  words  when  they  had  nailed  him  to  the 
cross.  But  again  I  say.  Let  it  be  Christ  that  excuseth 
thee  ;  he  will  do  it  to  more  purpose  than  thou,  and  will 


A    SERMON    TO    LEOPOLD.  437 

not  wrong  thy  soul  by  excusing  thee  a  hair  too  much,  or 
thy  heart  by  excusing  thee  a  hair  too  Httle. 

•'  I  dreamed  once  that  I  had  committed  a  terrible  crime. 
Carried  beyond  myself  by  passion,  I  knew  not  at  the 
moment  how  evil  was  the  thing  I  did.  But  I  knew 
it  was  evil.  And  suddenly  I  became  aware,  when  it  was 
too  late,  of  the  nature  of  that  which  I  had  done.  The 
horror  that  came  with  the  knowledge  was  of  the  things 
that  belong  only  to  the  secret  soul.  I  was  the  same  man 
as  before  I  did  it,  yet  was  I  now  a  man  of  whom  my  former 
self  could  not  have  conceived  the  possibility  as  dvv^elling 
within  it.  That  former  self  seemed  now  by  contrast 
lovely  in  purity,  yet  out  of  that  seeming  puritx^  this 
fearful  foul  /  of  the  present  had  just  been  born  !  The 
face  of  my  fellow-man  was  an  avenging  law,  the  face  of 
a  just  enemy.  Where,  how,  should  the  frightful  fact  be 
hidden .''  The  conscious  earth  must  take  it  into  its 
wounded  bosom,  and  that  before  the  all-seeing  daylight 
should  come.  But  it  would  come,  and  I  should  stand 
therein  pointed  at  by  every  ray  that  shot  through  the 
sunny  atmosphere  ! 

"  The  agony  was  of  its  own  kind,  and  I  have  no  word 
to  tell  what  it  was  like.  An  evil  odor  and  a  sickening 
pain  combined  might  be  a  symbol  of  the  torture.  As  is 
in  the  nature  of  dreams,  possibly  I  lay  but  a  little  second 
on  the  rack,  yet  an  age  seemed  shot  through  and 
through  with  the  burning  meshes  of  that  crime,  while, 
cowering  and  terror-stricken,  I  tossed  about  the  loath- 
some fact  in  my  mind.  I  had  done  it,  and  from  the 
done  there  was  no  escape :  it  was  forevermore  a  thing 


438  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

done.  .  .  .  Came  a  sudden  change :  I  awoke.  The 
sun  stained  with  glory  the  curtains  of  my  room,  and  the 
hght  of  hfe  darted  keen  as  an  arrow  into  my  very  soul. 
Glory  to  God  !  I  was  innocent  !  The  stone  was  rolled 
from  my  sepulchre.  With  the  darkness  whence  it  had 
sprung,  the  cloud  of  my  crime  went  heaving  lurid  away. 
1  was  a  creature  of  the  light  and  not  of  the  dark.  For 
me  the  sun  shone  and  the  wind  blew  ;  for  me  the  sea 
roared  and  the  flowers  sent  up  their  odors.  For  me  the 
earth  had  nothing  to  hide.  My  guilt  was  wiped  away  ; 
there  was  no  red  worm  gnawing  at  my  heart ;  I  could 
look  my  neighbor  in  the  face,  and  the  child  of  m.y  friend 
might  lay  his  hand  in  mine  and  not  be  defiled  !  All  day 
long  the  joy  of  that  deliverance  kept  surging  on  in  my 
soul. 

"  But  something  yet  more  precious,  more  loVely  than 
such  an  awaking,  will  repentance  be  to  the  sinner;  for 
after  all  it  was  but  a  dream  of  the  night  from  which  that 
set  me  free,  and  the  spectre-deed  that  vanished  had  never 
had  a  place  in  the  world  of  fact ;  while  the  horror  from 
which  repentance  delivers  is  no  dream,  but  a  stubborn, 
abiding  reality.  Again,  the  vanishing  vision  leaves  the 
man  what  he  was  before,  still  capable,  it  maybe,  of  com- 
mitting the  crime  from  which  he  is  not  altogether  clean  to 
whom  in  his  sleep  it  was  possible  :  repentance  makes  of 
the  man  a  new  creature,  one  who  has  awaked  from  the 
sleep  of  sin  to  sleep  that  sleep  no  more.  The  change  in 
the  one  case  is  not  for  greatness  comparable  with  that  in 
the  other.  The  surt  that  awakes  from  the  one  sleep  is 
but  the  outward   sun    of  our  earthly  life — a  glorious, 


A    SERMON    TO    LEOPOLD.  439 

indeed,  and  lovely  thing,  which  yet  even  now  is  gathering' 
u  crust  of  darkness,  blotting  itself  out  and  vanishing. 
The  sun  that  awakes  a  man  from  the  sleep  of  death  is  th6 
living  Sun  that  casts  from  his  thought  out  into  being 
that  other  sun,  with  the  space  wherein  it  holds  its  plan- 
etary court — the  Father  of  lights,  before  whose  shining 
in  the  inner  world  of  truth  eternal  even  the  deeds  ot 
vice  become  as  spectral  dreams,  and,  with  the  night  of 
godlessness  that  engendered  them,  flee  away. 

"  But  a  man  may  answer  and  say  to  me,  '  Thou  art 
but  borne  on  the  wings  of  thine  imagination.  The  fact 
of  the  crime  remains,  let  a  man  tear  out  his  heart  in  re- 
pentance ;  and  no  awaking  can  restore  an  innocence 
which  is  indeed  lost.'  I  answer :  The  words  thou 
speakest  are  in  themselves  true,  yet  thy  ignorance 
makes  them  false.  Thou  kncwest  not  the  power  of 
God,  nor  what  resurrection  from  the  dead  means.  What 
if,  while  it  restored  not  thy  former  innocence,  it  brought 
thee  a  purity  by  the  side  of  whose  white  splendor  and 
inward  preciousness  the  innocence  thou  hadst  lost  was 
but  a  bauble,  being  but  a  thing  that  turned  to  dross  in 
the  first  furnace  of  its  temptation  }  Innocence  is  indeed 
priceless— that  innocence  which  God  counteth  inno- 
cence— b.ut  thine  was  a  flimsy  show,  a  bit  of  polished  and 
cherished  glass,  instead  of  w^hich,  if  thou  repentest, 
J  thou  shalt  in  thy  jewel-box  find  a  diamond.  Is  thy 
purity,  O  fair  Psyche  of  the  social  world,  upon  whose 
wings  no  spattering  shower  has  yet  cast  an  earth)'' 
stain,  and  who  knowest  not  yet  whether  there  be  any 
such  thing  as  repentance  or  need  of  the  sarhe  ! — is  thy 


440  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

purity  to  compare  with  the  purity  of  that  heavenly 
Psyche,  twice  born,  who  even  now  in  the  twilight  slum- 
bers of  heaven  dreams  that  she  washes  with  her  tears 
the  feet  of  her  Lord,  and  wipes  them  with  the  hairs  of 
hei  head  ?  O  bountiful  God,  who  wilt  give  us  back  even 
our  innocence  ten-fold  !  He  can  give  an  awaking  that 
leaves  the  past  of  the  soul  ten  times  farther  behind 
than  ever  waking  from  sleep  left  the  dreams  of  the 
night. 

"  If  the  potency  of  that  awaking  lay  in  the  inrush  of  a 
new  billow  of  life  fresh  from  its  original  source,  carrying 
with  it  an  enlargement  of  the  whole  nature  and  its  every 
part,  a  glorification  of  every  faculty,  every  sense  even, 
so  that  the  man,  forgetting  nothing  of  his  past  or  its 
shame,  should  yet  cry  out  in  the  joy  of  his  second  birth, 
'  Lo  !  I  am  a  new  man  ;  I  am  no  more  he  who  did  that 
awful  and  evil  thing,  for  I  am  no  more  capable  of  doing 
it !  God  be  praised,  for  all  is  well ! ' — would  not  such 
an  awaking  send  the  past  afar  into  the  dim  distance  of  the 
first  creation,  and  wrap  the  ill  deed  in  the  clean  linen 
cloth  of  forgiveness,  even  as  the  dull  creature  of  the  sea 
rolls  up  the  grain  of  intruding  sand  in  the  lovely  gar- 
ment of  a  pearl  ?  Such  an  awaking  means  God  himself 
in  the  soul,  not  disdaining  closest  vital  company  with 
the  creature  he  foresaw  and  created.  And  the  man 
knows  in  full  content  that  he  is  healed  of  his  plague. 
Nor  would  he  willingly  lose  the  scars  which  record  its 
outbreak,  for  they  tell  him  what  he  is  without  God,  and 
set  him  ever  looking  to  see  that  the  door  into  the  hea- 
venly garden  stand  wide  for  God  to  enter  the  house 


A   SERMON   TO    LEOPOLD.  441 

when  it  pleases  him.  And  who  can  tell  whether  in  the 
train  of  such  an  awaking  may  not  follow  a  thousand  op- 
portunities and  means  of  makingamends  to  those  whom 
he  has  injured  ?  , 

"  Nor  must  I  fail  to  remind  the  man  who  has  com- 
mitted  no  grievous  crime,  that  except  he  has  repented 
of  his  evil  self  and  abjured  all  wrong,  he  is  not  safe 
from  any  even  the  worst  offence.  There  was  a  time 
when  I  could  not  understand  that  he  who  loved  not  his 
brother  was  a  murderer :  now  I  see  it  to  be  no  figure  of 
speech,  but,  in  the  realities  of  man's  moral  and  spiritual 
nature,  an  absolute  simple  fact.  The  murderer  and  the 
unloving  sit  on  the  same  bench  before  the  judge  of 
eternal  truth.  The  man  who  loves  not  his  brother  I  do 
not  say  is  at  this  moment  capable  of  killing  him,  but  if 
the  natural  working  of  his  unlove  be  not  checked,  he 
will  assuredly  become  capable  of  killing  him.  Until  we 
love  our  brother — yes,  until  we  love  our  enemy,  who  is 
yet  our  brother — we  contain  within  ourselves  the  unde- 
veloped germ  of  murder.  And  so  with  every  sin  in  ihe 
tables  or  out  of  the  tables.  There  is  not  one  in  this  con- 
gregation who  has  a  right  to  cast  a  look  of  reproach  at 
the  worst  felon  who  ever  sat  in  the  prisoner's  dock.  I 
speak  no  hyperbole,  but  simple  truth.  We  are  very 
ready  to  draw  in  our  minds  a  distinction  between  re- 
spectable sins— human  imperfections  we  call  them,  per- 
haps— and  disreputable  vices,  such  as  theft  and  murder  ; 
but  there  is  no  such  distinction  in  fact.  Many  a  thief  is 
a  better  man  than  many  a  clergyman,  and  miles  nearer 
to  the  gate  of  the  kingdom.     The  heavenly  order  goes 


442  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

upon  other  principles  tlian  ours,  and  there  are  first  that 
shall  be  last,  and  last  that  shall  be  first.  Only,  at  the 
root  of  all  human  bliss  lies  repentance. 

"  Come  then  at  thp  call  of  the  Waker,  the  Healer,  the 
Giver  of  repentance  and  light,  the  Friend  of  publicans 
and  sinners,  all  ye  on  whom  lies  the  weight  of  a  sin  or 
the  gathered  heap  of  a  thousand  crimes  !  He  came  to 
call  such  as  you  that  he  might  make  you  clear  and 
clean.  He  can  not  bear  that  you  should  live  on  in  such 
misery,  such  badness,  such  blackness  of  darkness.  He 
would  give  you  again  your  life,  the  bliss  of  your  being. 
He  will  not  speak  to  you  one  word  of  reproach,  except, 
indeed,  you  should  aim  at  justifying  yourselves  by  ac- 
cusing your  neighbor.  He  will  leave  it  to  those  who 
^  cherish  the  same  sms  in  their  hearts  to  cast  stones  at 
you  :  he  who  has  no  sin  casts  no  stone.  Heartily  he 
loves  3''ou,  heartily  he  hates  the  evil  in  you — so  heartily 
that  he  will  even  cast  you  into  the  fire  to  burn  you 
clean.  By  making  you  clean  he  will  give  you  rest.  If 
he  upbraid,  it  will  not  be  for  past  sin,  but  for  the  present 
little  faith,  holdii.g  out  to  him  an  acorn-cup  to  fill. 
The  rest  of  you,  keep  aloof,  if  you  will,  until  you 
4  shall  have  done  some  deed  that  compels  you  to  cry  out 
for  deliverance  ;  but  you  that  know  yourselves  sinners, 
come  to  him  that  he  may  work  in  you  his  perfect  work, 
for  he  came  not  to  call  the  righteous,  but  sinners— us, 
you  and  me — to  repentance." 


CHAPTER   LXVIII. 

^  F  r  E  R      THE      SERMON. 

S  the  sermon  drew  to  a  close,  and  the  mist  of 
\IqJj  his  emotion  bejran  to  disperse,  individual 
^^1  faces  of  his  audience  again  dawned  out  on 
^MfZ-i  the  preacher's  ken.  Mr.  Drew's  head  was 
down.  As  I  have  alreadv  said,  certain  things  he  had  been 
taught  in  his  youth  and  had  practised  in  his  manhood, 
certain  mean  ways  counted  honest  enough  in  the  trade, 
had  become  to  him,  regarded  from  the  ideal  point  of  the 
divine  in  merchandise — such  a  merchandise,  namely,  as 
the  share  the  Son  of  Man  might  have  taken  in  buying 
and  selling,  had  his  reputed  father  been  a  shopkeeper 
instead  of  a  carpenter — absolutely  hateful,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  them  intolerable.  Nor  did  it  relieve  him  much  to 
remind  himself  of  the  fact  that  he  knew  not  to  the  full 
the  nature  of  the  advantages  he  took,  for  he  knew  that  he 
had  known  them  such  as  shrank  from  the  light,  not  com- 
ing thereto  to  be  made  manifest.  He  was  now  doing  his 
best  to  banish  them  from  his  business,  and  yet  they  were 
a  painful  presence  to  his  spirit — so  grievous  to  be  borne 


444  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

that  the  prospect  held  out  by  the  preacher  of  an  abso- 
lute and  final  deliverance  from  them,  by  the  indwelling 
presence  of  the  God  of  all  living  men  and  true  mer- 
chants, was  a  blessedness  unspeakable.  Small  was  the 
suspicion  in  the  Abbey  Church  of  Glaston,  that  morn- 
ing, that  the  well-known  successful  man  of  business  was 
weeping.  Who  could  once  have  imagined  another  reason 
for  the  laying  of  that  round,  good-humored,  contented 
face  down  on  the  book-board  than  pure  drowsiness  from 
lack  of  work-day  interest  ?  Yet  there  was  a  human  soul 
crying  out  alter  its  birthright.  Oh  !  to  be  clean  as  a 
mountain  river  !  clean  as  the  air  above  the  clouds  or 
on  the  middle  seas  !  as  the  throbbing  a^^ther  that  fills 
the  gulf  betwixt  star  and  star  ! — nay,  as  the  thought  of 
the  Son  of  Man  himself,  who,  to  make  all  things  new 
and  clean,  stood  up  against  the  whole  battery  of  sin- 
sprung  suffering,  withstanding  and  enduring  and  stilling 
the  recoil  of  the  awful  force  wherewith  his  Father  had 
launched  the  worlds,  and  given  birth  to  human  souls  with 
wills  that  might  become  free  as  his  own. 

While  Wingfold  had  been  speaking  in  general  terms, 
with  the  race  in  his  mind's,  and  the  congregation  in  his 
body's  eye,  he  had  yet  thought  more  of  one  soul,  with  its 
one  crime  and  its  intolerable  burden,  than  of  all  the  rest : 
Leopold  was  ever  present  to  him,  and  while  he  strove 
to  avoid  absorption  in  a  personal  interest  however  justi- 
fiable, it  was  of  necessity  that  the  thought  of  the  most 
burdened  sinner  he  knew  should  color  the  whole  of  his 
utterance.  At  times,  indeed,  he  felt  as  if  he  were  speak- 
ing to  him  immediately,  and  to  him  only;  at  others,  al- 


AFTER   THE    SERMON.  445 

though  then  he  saw  her  no  more  than  him,  that  he  was 
comforting  the  sister  individually,  in  holding  out  to  her 
brother  the  mighty  hope  of  a  restored  purity.  And 
when  once  more  his  mind  could  receive  the  messages 
brought  home  by  his  eyes,  he  saw  upon  Helen's  face  the 
red  sunset  of  a  rapt  listening.  True,  it  was  already  fad- 
ing away,  but  the  eyes  had  wept,  the  glow  yet  hung 
about  cheek  and  forehead,  and  the  firm  mouth  had 
forgotten  itself  into  a  tremulous  form,  which  the  stillr 
ness  of  absorption  had  there  for  the  moment  fixed. 

But  even  already,  although  he  could  not  yet  read  it 
upon  her  countenance,  a  snake  had  begun  to  lift  its  head 
from  the  chaotic  swamp  which  runs  a  creek  at  least  into 
every  soul,  the  rudimentary  desolation,  a  remnant  of 
the  time  when  the  world  was  without  form  and  void. 
And  the  snake  said,  "  Why  then  did  he  not  speak  like 
that  to  my  Leopold  ?  Why  did  he  not  comfort  him  with 
such  a  good  hope,  well  becoming  a  priest  of  the  gentle 
Jesus  ?  Or,  if  he  fancied  he  must  speak  of  confession, 
why  did  he  not  speak  of  it  in  plain,  honest  terms, 
instead  of  suggesting  the  idea  of  it  so  that  the  poor  boy 
imagined  it  came  from  his  own  spirit,  and  must  there- 
fore be  obe5^ed  as  the  will  of  God  ?" 

So  said  the  snake  ;  and  by  the  time  Helen  had  walked 
home  with  her  aunt,  the  glow  had  sunk  from  her  soul, 
and  a  gray,  wintry  mist  had  settled  down  upon  her  spir- 
it. And  she  said  to  herself  that  if  this  last  hope  in 
George  should  fail  her,  she  would  not  allow  the  matter 
to  trouble  her  any  further  ;  she  was  a  free  woman,  and, 
as  Leopold  had  chosen  other  counsellors,  had  thus  de*. 


446  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

clared  her  unworthy  of  confidence,  and,  after  all  that 
she  had  suffered  and  done  for  love  of  him,  had  turned 
away  from  her,  she  would  put  money  in  her  purse,  set 
out  for  France  or  Italy,  and  leave  him  to  the  fate, 
whatever  it  might  be,  which  his  new  advisers  and  his 
own  obstinacy  might  bring  upon  him.  Was  the  innocent 
bound  to  share  the  shame  of  the  guilty  ?  Had  she  not 
done  enough  .''  Would  even  her  father  require  more  of 
her  than  she  had  already  done  and  endured  ? 

When,  therefore,  she  went  into  Leopold's  room,  and 
his  eyes  sought  her  from  the  couch,  she  took  no  notice 
that  he  had  got  up  and  dressed  while  she  was  at  church  ; 
and  he  knew  that  a  cloud  had  come  between  them,  and 
that  after  all  she  had  borne  and  done  for  him,  he  and 
his  sister  were  now  farther  apart,  for  the  time  at  least, 
than  when  oceans  lay  betwixt  their  birth  and  their 
meeting  ;  and  he  found  himself  looking  back  with  vague 
longing  even  to  the  terrible  old  house  of  Glaston,  and 
the  sharing  of  their  agony  therein.  His  eyes  followed 
her  as  she  walked  across  to  the  dressing-room,  and  the 
tears  rose  and  filled  them,  but  he  said  nothing.  And  the 
sister  who,  all  the  time  of  the  sermon,  had  been  filled  with 
wave  upon  wave  of  wishing — that  Poldie  could  hear  this, 
could  hear  that,  could  have  such  a  thought  to  comfort 
him,  such  a  lovely  word  to  drive  the  horror  from  his 
soul — now  cast  on  him  a  chilly  glance,  and  said  never  a 
word  of  the  things  to  which  she  had  listened  with  such 
heavingsot  the  spirit-ocean  ;  for  she  felt.withan  instinct 
more  righteous  than  her  will,  that  they  would  but 
strengthen  him  in  his  determination  to  do  whatever  the 


AFTER   THE    SERMON.  447 

teacher  of  them  might  approve.  As  she  repassed  him 
to  go  to  the  drawing-room,  she  did  indeed  say  a  word  of 
kindness  ;  but  it  was  in  a  forced  tone,  and  was  only 
about  his  dinner  !  His  eyes  overflowed,  but  he  shut  his 
lips  so  tight  that  his  mouth  grew  grim  with  determina- 
tion, and  no  more  tears  came. 

To  the  friend  who  joined  her  at  the  church-door,  and, 
in  George  Bascombe's  absence,  walked  with  them 
along  Pine  street,  Mrs.  Ramshorn  remarked  that  the 
curate  was  certainly  a  most  dangerous  man — particular- 
ly for  young  people  to  hear — he  so  confounded  all  the 
landmarks  of  right  and  wrong,  representing  the  honest 
man  as  no  better  than  the  thief,  and  the  murderer  as 
no  worse  than  anybody  else — teaching  people,  in 
fact,  that  the  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to  commit 
some  terrible  crime,  in  order  thereby  to  attain  to  a  better 
innocence  than  without  it  could  ever  be  theirs.  How 
far  she  mistook,  or  how  far  she  knew  or  suspected  that 
she  spoke  falsely,  I  will  not  pretend  to  know.  But 
although  she  spoke  as  she  did,  there  was  something, 
either  in  the  curate  or  in  the  sermon,  that  had  quieted 
her  a  little,  and  she  was  less  contemptuous  in  her  con- 
demnation of  him  than  usual. 

Happily  both  for  himself  and  others,  the  curate  was 
not  one  of  those  who  cripple  the  truth  and  blind  their 
own  souls  by 

some  craven  scruple 
Of  thinking  too  precisely  on  the  event — 
A  thought  which,  quartered,  hath  but  one  part  wisdom, 
And  ever  three  parts  coward  ; 


448  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

and  hence,  in  proportion  as  he  roused  the  honest,  he 
gave  occasion  to  the  dishonest  to  cavil  and  condemn. 
Imagine  St.  Paul  having  a  prevision  of  how  he  would  be 
misunderstood,  ajid  heeding  it ! — what  would  then  have 
become  of  all  those  his  most  magnificent  outbursts  > 
And  would  any  amount  of  apostolic  carefulness  have 
protected  him  }  I  suspect  it  would  only  have  given  rise 
to  more  vulgar  misunderstandings  and  misrepresenta- 
tions still.  To  explain  to  him  who  loves  not,  is  but  to  give 
him  the  more  plentiful  material  for  misinterpretation. 
Let  a  man  have  truth  in  the  inward  parts,  and  out  of 
the  abundance  of  his  heart  let  his  mouth  speak.  If  then 
he  should  have  ground  to  fear  honest  misunderstanding, 
let  him  preach  again  to  enforce  the  truth  for  which  he 
is  jealous,  and  if  it  should  seem  to  any  that  the  two  ut- 
terances need  reconciling,  let  those  who  would  have 
them  consist  reconcile  them  for  themselves. 

The  reason  of  George  Bascombe's'  absence  from 
church  that  morning  was  that,  after  an  early  breakfast, 
he  had  mounted  Helen's  mare  and  set  out  to  call  on 
Mr.  Hooker  before  he  should  have  gone  to  church. 
Helen  expected  him  back  to  dinner,  and  was  anxiously 
looking  for  him.  So  also  was  Leopold,  but  the  hopes  of 
the  two  were  different. 

At  length  the  mare's  hoofs  echoed  through  all  Sunday 
Glaston,  and  presently  George  rode  up.  The  groom 
took  his  hoise  in  the  street,  and  he  came  into  the  draw- 
ing-room.    Helen  hastened  to  meet  him. 

"  Well,  George  ?"  she  said  anxiously. 

"  Oh  J  it's  all  right .' — will  be  at  least,  I  am  sure.    I  will 


AFTER   THE    SERMON.  449 

tell  you  all  about  it  in  the  garden  after  dinner.  Aunt 
has  the  good  sense  never  to  interrupt  us  there,"  he  add- 
ed. "  I'll  just  run  and  show  myself  to  Leopold  :  he  must 
not  suspect  I  am  of  your  party  and  playing  him 
false.  Not  that  it  is  false,  you  know  !  for  two  negatives 
make  a  positive,  and  to  fool  a  madman  is  to  give  him 
fair  play." 

The  words  jarred  sorely  on  Helen's  ear. 

Bascombe  hurried  to  Leopold  and  informed  him  that 
he  had  seen  Mr.  Hooker,  and  that  all  was  arranged  for 
taking  him  over  to  his  place  on  Tuesday  morning,  if  by 
that  time  he  should  be  able  for  the  journey. 

"  Why  not  to-morrow  }"  said  Leopold.  "  I  am  quite 
able." 

"  Oh  !  I  told  him  you  were  not  very  strong.  And  he 
wanted  a  run  after  the  hounds  to-morrow.  So  we  judged 
it  better  put  off  till  Tuesday." 

Leopold  gave  a  sigh,  and  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  LXIX.  • 

BASCOMBE      AND      THE    MAGISTRATE. 

FTER  dinner  the  cousins  went  to  the  summer- 
house,  and  there  George  gave  Helen  his  re- 
port, reveaHng  his  plan  and  hope  for  Leo- 
pold. 

"  Such  fancies  must  be  humored,  you  know,  Helen 
There  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  opposing  them,"  he 
said. 

Helen  looked  at  him  with  keen  eyes,  and  he  returned 
the  gaze.  The  confidence  betwixt  them  was  not  per- 
fect :  each  was  doubtful  as  to  the  thought  of  the  other, 
and  neither  asked  what  it  was. 

"  A  fine  old  cock  is  Mr.  Hooker  !"  said  George  ;  "  a  jol- 
ly, good-natured,  brick-faced  squire  ;  a  Tory,  of  course, 
and  a  sound  churchman  ;  as  simple  as  a  baby,  and  took 
everything  I  told  him  without  a  hint  of  doubt  or  objec- 
tion— just  the  sort  of  man  I  expected  to  find  him  ! 
When  I  mentioned  my  name,  etc.,  he  found  he  had 
known  my  father,  and  that  gave  me  a  good  start.     Then 


BASCOMBE    AND   THE   MAGISTRATE.  451 

1  lauded  his  avenue,  and  apologized  for  troubling  him  so 
early  and  on  Sunday  too,  but  said  it  was  a  pure  work  of 
mercy  in  which  I  begged  his  assistance — as  a  magis- 
trate, I  added,  lest  he  should  fancy  I  had  come  af- 
ter a  subscription.  It  was  a  very  delicate  case,  I  said,  in 
which  were  concerned  the  children  of  a  man  of  whom  he 
had,  I  believed,  at  one  time  known  something — General 
Lingard.  '  To  be  sure  ! '  he  cried  ;  '  I  knew  him  very 
well ;  a  fine  fellow,  but  hasty,  sir — hasty  in  his  temper  ! ' 
I  said  I  had  never  known  him  myself,  but  one  of  his 
children  was  my  cousin  ;  the  other  was  the  child  of  his 
second  wife,  a  Hindoo  lady,  unfortunately,  and  it  was 
about  him  I  presumed  to  trouble  him.  Then  I  plunged 
into  the  matter  at  once,  telling  him  that  Leopold  had  had 
violent  brain-fever,  brought  en  by  a  horrible  drug  the 
use  of  which,  if  use  I  dared  call  it,  he  had  learned  in  In- 
dia ;  and  that,  although  he  had  recovered  from  the  fev^er, 
it  was  very  doubtful  if  ever  he  would  recover  from  the 
consequences  of  il,  for  that  he  had  become  the  prey  of  a 
fixed  idea,  the  hard  deposit  from  a  heated  imagination. 
'And  pray  what  is  the  idea.^'  he  asked.  'Neither 
more  nor  less,'  I  answered,  '  than  that  he  is  a  murder- 
er ! ' — *  God  bless  me  !  '  he  cried,  somewhat  to  my 
alarm,  for  I  had  been  making  all  this  preamble  to  preju- 
dice the  old  gentleman  in  the  right  direction,  lest  after- 
wards Leopold's  plausibility  might  be  too  much  for  him. 
So  I  echoed  the  spirit  of  his  exclamation,  declaring  it 
was  one  of  the  saddest  things  I  had  ever  known,  that  a 
fellow  of  such  sweet  and  gentle  nature,  one  utterly  in- 
capable of   unkindness,  not  to  say  violence,  should  be 


452  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

SO  possessed  by  misery  and  remorse  for  a  phantom  deed, 
no  more  his  than  if  he  had  but  dreamed  it,  a  thing  he 
not  only  did  not  do,  but  never  could  have  done.  I  had 
not  yet,  however,  told  him,  I  said,  what  was  perhaps  the 
saddest  point  in  the  whole  sad  story — namely,  that  the 
attack  had  been  brought  on  by  the  news  of  the  actual 
murder  of  a  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  passionately  at- 
tached ;  the  horror  of  it  had  unhinged  his  reason,  then 
turned  and  fastened  upon  his  imagination  ;  so  that  he 
was  now  convinced,  beyond  the  reach  of  argument  or 
even  the  clearest  proof,  that  it  was  his  own  hand  that 
drove  the  knife  ta  her  heart.  Then  I  recalled  to  his 
memory  the  case  as  reported,  adding  that  the  fact  of  the 
murderer's  prolonged  evasion  of  justice  appeared,  by 
some  curious  legerdemain  of  his  excited  fancy,  if  not  to 
have  suggested — of  that  I  was  doubtful — yet  to  have 
ripened  his  conviction  of  guilt.  Now  nothing  would 
serve  him  but  he  must  give  himself  up,  confess — no, 
that  was  not  a  true  word  in  his  case — accuse  him.sclf 
of  the  crime,  and  meet  his  fate  on  the  gallows,  '  in  the 
hope,  observe,  my  dear  sir,'  I  said,  '  of  finding  her  in 
the  other  world,  and  there'  making  it  up  with  her  ! ' 
'  God  bless  me  !  '  he  cried  again,  in  a  tone  of  absolute 
horror.  And  every  now  and  then,  while  I  spoke,  he 
would  ejaculate  something  ;  and  still  as  he  listened,  his 
eyes  grew  more  and  more  bloodshot  with  interest  and 
compassion.  'Ah,  I  see!'  he  said  then;  'you  want 
to  send  him  to  a  mad-house.  Don't  do  it,'  he  contin- 
ued, in  a  tone  of  expostulation,  almost  entreaty.  '  Poor 
boy  !     He  may  get  over  it.     Let  his  friends  look  to  him 


BASCOMBE   AND    THE   MAGISTRATE.  453 

He  has  a  sister,  you  say  ?  '  I  quickly  reassured  him, 
telHng  him  such  was  no  one's  desire,  and  saying  I  would 
come  to  the  point  in  a  moment,  only  there  was  one  thing 
more  which  had  interested  me  greatly,  as  reveaHng  how 
a  brain  in  such  a  condition  will  befool  itself,  all  but  gen- 
erating two  individualities.  There  I  am  afraid  1  put  my 
foot  in  it,  but  he  was  far  too  simple  to  see  it  was  cloven 
— ha  !  ha  ! — and  I  hastened  to  remark  that,  as  a  magis- 
trate, he  must  have  had  numberless  opportunities  of 
noting  similar  phenomena.  He  waved  his  hand  in  dep- 
recation, and  I  hastened  to  remark  that,  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point,  whatever  hint  the  newsoapers  had  given, 
Leopold  had  expanded  and  connected  with  every  other, 
but  that  at  one  part  of  the  story  I  had  found  him  entire- 
ly at  fault :  he  could  not  tell  what  he  did,  where  he 
went,  or  how  he  had  felt  first  after  the  deed  was  done. 
He  confessed  all  after  that  was  a  blank  until  he  found 
himself  in  bed.  But  when  I  told  him  something  he  had 
not  seen — which  his  worship  might  remember — the  tes- 
timony, namely,  of  the  coast-guardsman — about  the  fish- 
ing-boat with  the  two  men  in  it — I  had  here  to  refresh 
his  memory  as  to  the  whole  of  that  circumstance,  and 
did  so  by  handing  him  the  newspaper  containing  it — • 
that  was  what  I  made  you  give  me  the  paper  for.  I  have 
lost  the  thread  of  my  sentence,  but  never  mind.  I  told 
him  then  something  I  have  not  told  you  yet,  Helen — 
namely,  that  when  I  happened  to  allude  to  that  portion 
of  the  story,  Leopold  started  up  with  flashing .eye^,  and 
exclaimed.  Now  I  remember!  It  all  comes  back  to 
me  as  clear  as  day.     I  remember  running  down  the  hill, 


454  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

and  jumping  into  the  boat  just  as  they  shoved  off.  I  was 
exhausted  and  fell  down  in  the  stern.  When  I  came  to 
myself,  the  two  men  were  forward  :  I  saw  their  legs 
through  beneath  the  sails.  I  thought  they  would  be 
sure  to  give  me  up,  and  at  once  I  slipped  overboard. 
The  water  revived  me,  but  when  I  reached  the  shore  I 
fell  down  again,  and  lay  there  I  don't  know  how  long. 
Indeed  I  don't  remember  any  thing  more  except  con- 
fusedly.' That  is  what  Leopold  said,  and  what  I  now 
told  Mr.  Hooker.  Then  at  last  I  opened  my  mind  to  him 
as  to  wherein  I  ventured  to  ask  his  assistance  ;  and  my 
petition  was  that  he  would  allow  me  to  bring  Leopold, 
and  would  let  him  go  through  the  form  of  giving  himself 
up  to  justice.  Especially  I  begged  that  he  would  listen 
to  all  he  had  to  say,  and  give  no  sign  that  he  doubted 
his  story.  'And  then,  sir,'  I  concluded,  'I  would 
leave  it  to  you  to  do  what  we  can  not — reconcile  him  to 
going  home  instead  of  to  prison.' 

"  He  sat  with  his  head  on  his  hand  for  a  while,  as  if 
pondering  some  weighty  question  of  law.  Then  he  said 
suddenly,  *  It  is  now  almost  church-time.  I  will  think 
the  matter  over.  You  may  rely  upon  me.  Will  you 
take  a  seat  in  my  pew.  and  dine  with  us  after?'  I  ex- 
cused myself  on  the  ground  that  I  must  return  at  once 
to  poor  Leopold,  who  was  anxiously  looking  for  me. 
And  you  must  forgiv^e  me,  Helen,  and  not  fancy  me  mis- 
using Fanny,  if  I  did  yield  to  the  temptation  of  a  little 
longer  ride.  I  have  scarcely  more  than  walked  her, 
with  a  canter  now  and  then  when  we  had  the  chance  of 
a  bit  of  turf." 


BASCOMBE   AND    THE   MAGISTRATE.  455 

Helen  assured  him  with  grateful  eyes  that  she  knew 
Fanny  was  as  safe  with  him  as  with  herself,  and  she 
felt  such  a  gush  of  gratitude  follow  the  revival  of  hope, 
that  she  was  nearer  being  in  love  with  her  cousin  than 
ever  before.  Her  gratitude  inwardly  delighted  George, 
and  he  thought  the  light  in  her  blue  eyes  lovelier  than 
ever;  but  although  strongly  tempted,  he  judged  it  bet- 
ter to  delay  a  formal  confession  until  circumstances 
should  be  more  comfortable. 


CHAPTER  LXX, 


THE       CONFESSION 


;]LL  that  and  the  following  day  Leopold  was  in 
spirits  for  him  wonderful.  On  Monday- 
night  there  came  a  considerable  reaction  :  he 
was  dejected,  worn,  and  weary.  Twelve 
o'clock  the  next  day  was  the  hour  appointed  for  their 
visit  to  Mr.  Hooker,  and  at  eleven  he  was  dressed  and 
ready — restless,  agitated,  and  very  pale,  but  not  a  whit 
less  determined  than  at  first.  A  drive  was  the  pretext 
for  borrowing  Mrs.  Ramshorn's  carriage. 

"  Why  is  Mr.  Wingfold  not  coming?"  asked  Lingard 
anxiously,  when  it  began  to  move. 

"  I  fancy  we  shall  be  quite  as  comfortable  without  him, 
Poldie,"  said  Helen.     "  Did  you  expect  him  }" 

"  He  promised  to  go  with  me.  But  he  hasn't  called 
since  the  time  was  fixed."  Here  Helen  looked  out  of 
the  window.  "  I  can't  think  why  it  is.  1  can  do  my  du- 
ty without  him,  though,"  continued  Leopold,  "and  per- 
haps it  is  just  as  well.  Do  you  know,  George,  since  I 
made  up  my  mind  I  have  seen  her  but  once,  and  that 
was  last  night,  and  only  in  a  dream." 

"A  state  of  irresolution  is  one  peculiarly  open  to  un- 


THE   CONFESSION.  45/ 


healthy  impressions,"  said  George,  good-naturedly  dis- 
posing of  his  long  legs  so  that  they  should  be  out  of  the 
way. 

Leopold  turned  from  him  to  his  sister. 

"  The  strange  thing,  Helen,"  he  said,  "  was  that  I  did 
not  feel  the  least  afraid  of  her,  or  even  abashed  before 
her.  '  I  see  you,'  I  said.  '  Be  at  peace.  I  am  com- 
ing ;  and  you  shall  do  to  me  what  you  will.'  And  then 
— what  do  you  think  ? — O  my  God  !  she  smiled  one  of 
her  own  old  smiles — only  sad,  too.  very  sad — and  vanish- 
ed. I  woke,  and  she  seemed  only  to  have  just  left  the 
room,  for  there  was  a  stir  in  the  darkness.  Do  you  be- 
lieve in  ghosts,  George  ?" 

Leopold  was  not  one  of  George's  initiated,  I  need 
hardly  say. 

"  No,"  answered  Bascombe. 

"  I  don't  wonder.  I  can't  blame  you,  for  neither  did  I 
once.     But  just  wait  till  you  have  made  one,  George  !" 

"God  forbid!"  exclaimed  Bascombe,  a  second  time 
forgetting  himself. 

"Amen!"  said  Leopold;  "for  after  that  there's  no 
help  but  be  one  yourself,  you  know." 

"  If  he  would  only  talk  like  that  to  old  Hooker  !" 
thought  George.  "  It  would  go  a  long  way  to  forestall 
any  possible  misconception  of  the  case." 

"  I  can't  think  why  Mr.  Wingfold  did  not  come  yes- 
terday," resumed  Leopold.     "  I  made  sure  he  would." 

"  Now,  Poldie,  you  mustn't  talk,"  said  Helen,  "  or 
you'll  be  exhausted  before  we  get  to  Mr.  Hooker's." 

She  did  not  wish  the  non-appearance  of  the  curate  on 


458  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Monday  to  be  closely  inquired  into.  His  company  at 
the  magistrate's  was  by  all  possible  means  to  be  avoided. 

George  had  easily  persuaded  Helen — more  easily  than 
he  expected — to  wait  their  return  in  the  carriage,  and 
the  two  men  were  shown  into  the  library,  where  the 
magistrate  presently  joined  them.  He  would  have 
shaken  hands  with  Leopold  as  well  as  George,  but  the 
conscious  felon  drew  back. 

"  No,  sir;  excuse  me,"  he  said.  "  Hear  what  I  have  to 
tell  you  first ;  and  if  after  that  you  will  shake  hands 
with  me,  it  will  be  a  kindness  indeed.  But  you  will  not ! 
you  will  not !" 

Worthy  Mr.  Hooker  was  overwhelmed  with  pity  at 
sight  of  the  worn,  sallow  face  with  the  great  eyes,  in 
which  he  found  every  appearance  confirmatory  of  the 
tale  wherewith  Bascombe  had  filled  and  prejudiced  every 
fibre  of  his  judgment.  He  listened  in  the  kindest  way 
while  the  poor  boy  forced  the  words  of  his  confession 
from  his  throat.  But  Leopold  never  dreamed  of  attrib- 
uting his  emotion  to  any  other  cause  than  compassion 
for  one  who  had  been  betrayed  into  such  a  crime.  It 
was  against  his  will — for  he  seemed  now  bent,  even  to 
unreason,  on  fighting  every  weakness — that  he  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  take  a  little  wine.  Having  ended,  he  sat 
silent,  in  the  posture  of  one  whose  wrists  are  already 
clasped  by  the  double  bracelet  of  steel. 

Now  Mr.  Hooker  had  thought  the  thing  out  in  church 
on  the  Sunday ;  and  after  a  hard  run  at  the  tall  of  a 
strong  fox  over  a  rough  country  on  the  Monday,  and  a 


THE   CONFESSION.  459 


good  sleep  well  into  the  morning  of  the  Tuesday,  could 
see  no  better  way.     His  device  was  simple  enough. 

"My  dear  young  gentleman,"  he  said,  "I  am  very 
sory  for  you,  but  I  must  do  my  duty." 

"That,  sir,  is  what  I  came  to  you  for,"  answered 
Leopold  humbly. 

"  Then  you  must  consider  yourself  my  prisoner.  The 
moment  you  are  gone,  I  shall  makes  notes  of  your  de- 
position, and  proceed  to  arrange  for  the  necessary  form- 
alities. As  a  mere  matter  of  form,  I  shall  take  your  own 
bail  in  a  thousand  pounds  to  surrender  when  called  up- 
on." 

"  But  I  am  not  of  age,  and  haven't  got  a  thousand 
pounds,"  said  Leopold. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Hooker  will  accept  my  recognizance  in 
the  amount  ?"  said  Bascombe. 

"Certainly,"  answered  Mr.  Hooker,  and  wrote  some- 
thing which  Bascombe  signed. 

"You  are  very  good,  George,"  said  Leopold.  "But 
you  know  I  can't  run  away  if  I  would,"  he  added,  with  a 
pitiful  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  better,"  said  the  magistrate 
kindly. 

"Why  such  a  wish,  sir.^"  returned  Leopold,  almost 
reproachfully,  and  the  good  man  stood  abashed  before 
him. 

He  thought  of  it  afterwards,  and  was  puzzled  to  know 
how  it  was. 

"  You  must  hold  yourself  m  readiness,"  he  said,  re- 
covering himself  with  an  effort,  "  to  give  yourself  up  at 


46o  THOMAS  WINGFOLD.  CURATE. 

any  moment.  And,  remember,  I  shall  call  upon  you 
when  1  please,  every  week  perhaps,  or  oftener,  to  see  tiiat 
you  are  safe.  Your  aunt  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  and 
there  will  be  no  need  of  explanations.  Tiiis  turns  out 
to  be  no  common  case,  and  after  hearing  the  whole,  I 
do  not  hesitate  to  offer  you  my  hand." 

Leopold  was  overcome  by  his  kindness,  and  withdrew 
speechless,  but  greatly  relieved. 

Several  times  during  the  course  of  his  narrative,  its  ap" 
parent  truthfulness  and  its  circumstantiality  went  nigh 
to  stagger  Mr.  Hooker;  but  a  glance  at  Bascombe"s 
face,  with  its  half-amused  smile,  instantly  set  him  right 
again;  and  he  thought  with  dismay  how  near  he  had 
been  to  letting  himself  be  fooled  by  a  madman. 

Again  in  the  carriage,  Leopold  laid  his  head  on  Hel- 
en's shoulder,  and  looked  up  in  her  face  with  such  a  smile 
as  she  had  never  seen  on  his  before.  Certainly  there 
was  something  in  confession — if  only  enthusiasts  like 
Mr.  Wingfold  would  not  spoil  all  by  pushing  things  to 
extremes  and  turning  good  into  bad  ! 

Leopold  was  yet  such  a  child,  had  so  little  occu- 
pied himself  with  things  about  him,  and  had  been  so  en- 
tirely taken  up  with  his  passion  and  the  poetry  of  exis- 
tence unlawfully  forced,  that  if  his  knowledge  of  the  cir- 
cumstances of  Emmeline's  murder  had  depended  on  the 
newspapers,  he  would  have  remained  in  utter  ignorance 
concerning  them.  From  the  same  causes  he  was  so  en- 
tirely unacquainted  with  the  modes  of  criminal  proce- 
dure, that  the  conduct  of  the  magistrate  never  struck 
him  as  strange,  not  to  say  illegal.     And  so  strongly  did 


THE  CONFESSION.  461 

he  feel  the  good  man's  kindness  and  sympathy,  that  his 
comfort  from  making  a  clean  breast  of  it  was  even  great- 
er than  he  had  expected.  Before  they  reached  home  he 
was  fast  asleep.  When  laid  on  his  couch,  he  almost 
instantly  fell  asleep  again,  and  Helen  saw  him  smile  as 
he  slept. 


CHAPTER   LXXI. 


THE     MASK. 


UT   although   such   was   George   Bascombe's 
judgment  of  Leopold,  and  such  his  conduct  of 
his  affair,  he  could  not  prevent  the  recurrent 
intrusion  of  the  flickering  doubt  which  had 
shown  itself  when  first  he  listened  to  the  story.     Amid 
all  the  wildness  of  the  tale  there  was  yet  a  certain  air 
not  merely  of  truthfulness  in  the  narrator — that  was  not 
to  be  questioned — but  of  verisimilitude  in  the  narration, 
which  had  its  effect,  although  it  gave  rise  to  no  con- 
scious exercise  of  discriminating  or  ponderating  faculty. 
Leopold's  air  of  conviction  also,  although   of  course 
that    might    well     accompany    the    merest    invention 
rooted  in  madness,   yet  had  its  force,  persistently  as 
George  pooh-poohed  it — which  he  did  the  more  strenu- 
ously from  the  intense,  even  morbid,  abhorrence  of  his 
nature  to  being  taken  in,  and  having  to  confess  himself 
of  unstable  intellec  ual  equilibrium.     Possibly  this  was 
not  the  only  kind  of  thing  m  which  the  sensitiveness  of 
a  vanity  he  would  himself  have  disowned,  had  rendered 


THE   MA.SK.  463 


him  unfit  for  perceiving  the  truth.  Nor  do  I  know  how 
much  there  may  be  to  choose  between  the  two  shames 
— that  of  accepting  what  is  untrue  and  that  of  refusing 
what  is  true. 

The  second  time  he  listened  to  Leopold's  continuous 
narrative,  the  doubt  returned  with  more  clearness 
and  less  flicker ;  there  was  such  a  thing  as  being 
overwise  :  might  he  not  be  taking  himself  in  with  his 
own  incredulity.'*  Ought  he  not  to  apply  some  test  .'^ 
And  did  Leojiold's  story  offer  any  means  of  doing  so  } 
One  thing,  he  then  found,  had  been  dimly  haunting 
his  thoughts  ever  since  he  heard  it :  Leopold  affirmed 
that  he  had  thrown  his  cloak  and  mask  down  an  old  pit- 
shaft,  close  by  the  place  of  murder.  If  there  was 
such  a  shaft,  could  it  be  searched  ?  Recurring 
doubt  at  length  so  wrought  upon  his  mind  that  he 
resolved  to  make  his  holiday  excursion  to  that  neigh- 
borhood, and  there  endeavor  to  gain  what  assurance 
of  any  sort  might  be  to  be  had.  What  end  beyond 
his  own  possible  satisfaction  the  inquiry  was  to  an- 
swer he  did  not  ask  himself.  The  restless  spirit  of 
the  detective,  so  often  conjoined  with  indifference  to 
what  is  in  its  own  nature  true,  was  at  work  in  him  ;  but 
that  was  not  all  :  he  must  know  the  very  facts,  if  possi- 
ble, of  whatever  concerned  Helen,  I  shall  not  follow 
his  proceedings  closely  :  it  is  with  their  reaction  upon 
Leopold  that  I  have  to  do. 

The  house  where  the  terrible  thing  took  place  was 
not  far  from  a  little  moorland  village.  There  Bascombe 
found  a  small  inn,  where  he  took  up  his  quarters,  pre- 


464  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


tending  to  be  a  geologist  out  for  a  holiday.     He  soon 
came  upon  the  disused  shaft. 

The  inn  was  a  good  deal  frequented  in  the  evenings  by 
the  colliers  of  the  district — a  rough  race,  but  not  beyond 
the  influences  of  such  an  address,  mingled  of  self-asser- 
tion and  good-fellowship,  as  Bascombe  brought  to  bear 
upon  them,  for  he  had  soon  perceived  that  amongst 
them  he  might  find  the  assistance  he^ wanted.  In  the 
course  of  conversation,  therefore,  he  mentioned  the 
shaft,  on  which  he  pretended  to  have  come  in  his  ram- 
bles. Remarking  on  the  danger  of  such  places,  he 
learned  that  this  one  served  for  ventilation,  and  was 
still  accessible  below  from  other  workings.  There- 
after he  begged  permission  to  go  down  one  of  the  pits, 
on  pretext  of  examining  the  coal-strata,  and  having  se- 
cured for  his  guide  one  of  the  most  intelligent  of  those 
whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  at  the  inn,  persuaded 
him,  partly  by  expressions  of  incredulity  because  of  the 
distance  between,  to  guide  him  to  the  bottom  of  the 
shaft  whose  acessibility  he  maintained.  That  they  were 
going  in  the  right  direction,  he  had  the  testimony  of  a 
little  compass  he  carried  at  his  watch-chain,  and  at  length 
he  saw  a  faint  gleam  before  him.  When  at  last  he  raised 
his  head,  wearily  bent  beneath  the  low  roofs  of  the  pas- 
sages, and  looked  upwards,  there  was  a  star  looking 
down  at  him  out  of  the  sky  of  day  !  But  George  never 
wasted  time  in  staring  at  what  was  above  his  head,  and 
so  began  instantly  to  search  about  as  if  examining  the 
indications  of  the  strata.  Was  it  possible  !  Could  it  be  ? 
There  was  a  piece  of  black  something  that  was  not  coal 


THE   MASK.  465 


and  seemed  textile  !  It  was  a  half-mask,  for  there  were 
the  eyeholes  in  it !  He  caught  it  up  and  hurried  it  into 
his  bag — not  so  quickly  but  that  the  haste  set  his  guide 
speculating.  And  Bascombe  saw  that  the  action  was 
noted.  The  man  afterwards  offered  to  carry  his  bag, 
but  he  would  not  allow  him. 

The  next  morning  he  left  the  place  and  returned  to 
London,  taking  Glaston,  by  a  detour,  on  his  way.  A 
few  questions  to  Leopold  drew  from  him  a  description 
of  the  mask  he  had  worn,  entirely  corresponding  with 
the  one  George  had  found  ;  and  at  length  he  was  satis- 
fied that  there  was  truth  more  than  a  little  in  Leopold's 
confession.  It  was  not  his  business,  however,  he  now  said 
to  himself,  to  set  magistrates  right.  True,  he  had  set  Mr. 
Hooker  wrong  in  the  first  place,  but  he  had  done  it  in 
good  faith,  and  how  could  he  turn  traitor  to  Helen  and 
her  brother?  Besides,  he  was  sure  the  magistrate  him- 
self would  be  any  thing  but  obliged  to  him  for  opening 
his  eyes  !  At  the  same  time,  Leopold's  fanatic  eager- 
ness after  confession  might  drive  the  matter  further,  and 
if  so,  it  might  become  awkward  for  him.  He  might  be 
looked  to  for  the  defence,  and  were  he  not  certain  that 
his  guide  had  marked  his  concealment  of  what  he  had 
picked  up,  he  might  have  ventured  to  undertake  it,  for 
certainly  it  would  have  been  a  rare  chance  for  a  display  of 
the  forensic  talent  he  believed  himself  to  possess;  but  as 
itwas,  the  moment  he  was  called  to  the  bar — which  would 
be  within  a  fortnight — he  would  go  abroad,  say  to  Paris, 
and  there,  for  twelve  months  or  so,  await  events. 

When  he  disclosed  to  Helen  his  evil  success  in  the 


466  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

coal-pit,  it  was  but  the  merest  film  of  a  hope  it  destroyed, 
for  she  k7ieiv  that  her  brother  was  guilty.  George 
and  she  now  felt  that  they  were  linked  by  the  posses- 
sion of  a  common  secret. 

But  the  cloak  had  been  found  a  short  time  before,  and 
was  in  the  possession  of  Emmeline's  mother.  That 
mother  was  a  woman  of  strong  passions  and  determined 
character.  The  first  shock  of  the  catastrophe  over,  her 
grief  was  almost  supplanted  by  a  rage  for  vengeance,  in 
the  compassing  of  which  no  doubt  she  vaguely  imag- 
ined she  would  be  doing  something  to  right  her  daugh- 
ter. Hence  the  protracted  concealment  of  the  murderer 
was  bitterness  to  her  soul,  and  she  vowed  herself  to  dis- 
covery and  revenge  as  the  one  business  of  her  life.  In 
this  her  husband,  a  good  deal  broken  by  the  fearful 
event,  but  still  more  by  misfortunes  of  another  kind 
which  had  begun  to  threaten  him,  offered  her  no  assist- 
ance, and  indeed  felt  neither  her  passion  urge  him  nor 
her  perseverance  hold  him  to  the  pursuit. 

In  the  neighborhood  her  mind  was  well  known,  and 
not  a  few  found  their  advantage  in  supplying  her  pas- 
sion with  the  fuel  of  hope.  Any  hint  of  evidence,  how- 
ever small,  the  remotest  suggestion  even  towards  dis- 
covery, they  would  carry  at  once  to  her  ;  for  she  was  an 
open-handed  woman,  and  in  such  case  would  give  with 
a  profusion  that,  but  for  the  feeling  concerned,  would 
have  been  absurd,  and  did  expose  her  to  the  greed  of 
every  lying  mendicant  within  reach  of  her.  Not  unnatu- 
rally, therefore,  it  had  occurred  to  a  certain  collier  to 
make  his  way  to  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  on  the  chance 


THE   MASK.  467 


— hardly  of  finding,  but  of  being  enabled  to  invent  some- 
thing worth  reporting  ;  and  there,  to  the  very  fooling 
of  his  barren  expectation,  he  had  found  the  cloak. 

The  mother  had  been  over  to  Holland,  where  she  had 
instituted  unavailing  inquiries  in  the  villages  along  the 
coast  and  among  the  islands,  and  had  been  home  but  a 
few  days  when  the  cloak  was  carried  to  her.  In  her 
mind  it  immediately  associated  itself  with  the  costumes  of 
the  horrible  ball,  and  at  once  she  sought  the  list  of  her 
guests  thereat.  It  was  before  her  at  the  very  moment 
when  the  man  who  had  been  Bascombe's  guide  sent  in 
to  request  an  interview,  the  result  of  which  was  to  turn 
her  attention  for  the  time  in  another  direction :  Who 
might  the  visitor  to  the  mine  have  been  ? 

Little  was  to  be  gathered  in  the  neighborhood  be- 
yond the  facts  that  the  letters  G  B  were  on  his  carpet- 
bag, and  that  a  scrap  of  torn  envelope  bore  what  seemed 
the  letters  mple.  She  despatched  the  poor  indications 
to  an  inquiry-office  in  London. 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

FURTHER      DECISION 

HE  day  after  his  confession  to  Mr.  Hooker,  a 
considerable  reaction  took  place  in  Lingard. 
He  did  not  propose  to  leave  his  bed,  and  lay 
exhausted.  He  said  he  had  caught  cold.  He 
coughed  a  little  ;  wondered  why  Mr.  Wingfold  did  not 
come  to  see  him  ;  dozed  a  good  deal,  and  often  woke 
with  a  start.  Mrs.  Ramshorn  thought  Helen  ought 
to  make  him  get  up  :  nothing,  she  said,  could  be  worse 
for  him  than  lying  in  bed;  but  Helen  thought,  even  if 
her  aunt  were  right,  he  must  be  humored.  The  follow- 
ing day  Mr.  Hooker  called,  inquired  after  him,  and  went 
up  to  his  room  to  see  him.  There  he  said  all  he  could 
think  of  to  make  him  comfortable  ;  repeated  that  cer- 
tain preliminaries  had  to  be  gone  tnrough  before  the 
commencement  of  the  prosecution  ;  said  that  while 
these  went  on,  it  was  better  he  should  be  in  his  sis- 
ter's care  than  in  prison,  where,  if  he  went  at  once,  he 
most  probably  would  die  before  the  trial  came  on  ;  that 
in  the  meantime  he  was  responsible  for  him  ;  that,  al- 
though he  had  done  quite  right  in  giving  himself  up,  he 


FURTHER   DECISION.  469 

must  not  let  what  was  done  and  could  no  more  be 
helped  prey  too  much  upon  his  mind,  lest  it  should 
render  him  unable  to  give  his  evidence  with  proper 
clearness,  and  he  should  be  judged  insane  and  sent  to 
Broadmoor,  which  would  be  frightful.  He  ended  by 
saying  that  he  had  had  great  provocation,  and  that  he 
was  certain  the  judge  would  consider  it  in  passing  sen- 
tence, only  he  must  satisfy  the  jury  there  had  been  no 
premeditation. 

"  I  will  not  utter  a  word  to  excuse  myself,  Mr.  Hook- 
er," replied  Leopold. 

The  worthy  magistrate  smiled  sadly,  and  went  away, 
if  possible  more  convinced  than  ever  of  the  poor  lad's 
insanity. 

The  visit  helped  Leopold  over  that  day,  but  when  the 
next  also  passed,  and  neither  did  Win^fold  appear  nor 
any  explanation  of  his  absence  reach  him,  he  made  up 
his  mind  to  act  again  for  himself. 

The  cause  of  the  curate's  apparent  neglect,  though  ill 
to  find,  was  not  far  to  seek. 

On  the  Monday  he  had,  upon  some  pretext  or  other, 
been  turned  away  ;  on  the  Tuesday  he  had  been  told 
Mr.  Lingard  was  gone  for  a  drive  ;  on  the  Wednesday, 
that  he  was  much  too  tired  to  be  seen  ;  and  thereupon  had 
at  length  judged  it  better  to  leave  things  to  right  them- 
selves. If  Leopold  did  not  want  to  see  him,  it  would 
be  of  no  use  by  persistence  to  force  his  way  to  him  ; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he  did  want  to  see  him,  he 
felt  convinced  the  poor  fellow  would  manage  to  have 
bis  own  way  somehow. 


470  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


The  next  morning  after  he  had  thus  resolved,  Leopold 
declared  himself  better,  and  got  up  and  dressed.  He 
then  lay  on  the  sofa  and  waited  as  quietly  as  he  could 
until  Helen  went  out — Mr.  Faber  insisting  she  should 
do  so  every  day.  It  was  no  madness,  but  a  burning 
desire  for  life^  coupled  with  an  utter  carelessness  of 
that  which  is  commonly  called  life,  that  now  ruled  his 
behavior.  He  tied  his  slippers  on  his  feet,  put  on  his 
smoking-cap,  crept  unseen  from  the  house,  and  took 
the  direction  of  the  Abbey.  The  influence  of  the  air^ 
by  his  weakness  rendered  intoxicating,  the  strange  look 
of  every  thing  around  him,  the  nervous  excitement  of 
every  human  approach,  kept  him  up  until  he  reached 
the  churchyard,  across  which  he  was  crawling  to  find 
the  curate's  lodging,  when  suddenly  his  brain  seemed  to 
go  swimming  away  into  regions  beyond  the  senses. 
He  attempted  to  seat  himself  on  a  gravestone,  but  lost 
consciousness,  and  fell  at  full  length  between  that  and 
the  next  one. 

When  Helen  returned,  she  was  horrified  to  find  that 
he  was  gone — when  or  whither  nobody  knew  :  no  one 
had  missed  him.  Her  first  fear  was  the  river,  but  her 
conscience  enlightened  her,  and  her  shame  could  not 
prevent  her  from  seeking  him  at  the  curate's.  In  her 
haste  she  passed  him  where  he  lay. 

Shown  into  the  curate's  study,  she  gave  a  hurried 
glance  around,  and  her  anxiety  became  terror  again. 

"O  Mr.  Wingfold  !"  she  cried,  "  where  is  Leopold  }" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,"  replied  ihe  curate,  turning 
pale. 


FURTHER   DECISION.  471 


"  Then  he  has  thrown  himself  in  the  river  !"  cned 
Helen,  and  sank  on  a  chair. 

The  curate  caught  up  his  hat. 

"  You  wait  here,"  he  said.  "  I  will  go  and  look  for 
him." 

But  Helen  rose,  and  without  another  w^ord  they  set 
off  together,  and  again  entered  the  churchyard.  As  they 
hurried  across  it,  the  curate  caught  sight  of  something 
on  the  ground,  and  springing  forward,  found  Leopold. 

"  He  is  dead  !"  cried  Helen  in  an  agony,  when  she 
saw  him  stop  and  stoop. 

He  looked  dead  indeed  ;  but  what  appalled  her  the 
most  reassured  VVingfold  a  little  :  blood  had  flowed 
freely  from  a  cut  on  his  eyebrow. 

The  curate  lifted  him — no  hard  task — out  of  the  damp 
shadow,  and  laid  him  on  the  stone,  which  was  warm  in 
the  sun,  with  his  head  on  Helen's  lap,  then  ran  to  order 
the  carriage,  and  hastened  back  with  brandy.  They  got 
a  little  into  his  mouth,  but  he  could  not  swallow  it ; 
still  it  seemed  to  do  him  good,  for  presently  he  gave  a 
deep  sigh,  and  just  then  they  heard  the  carriage  stop  at 
the  gate.  Wingfold  took  him  up,  carried  him  to  it,  got 
in  with  him  in  his  arms,  and  held  him  on  his  knees  until 
they  reached  the  manor-house,  when  he  carried  him 
up-stairs  and  laid  him  on  the  sofa.  When  they  had 
brought  him  round  a  little,  he  undressed  him  and  put 
him  to  bed. 

"  Do  not  leave  me,"  murmured  Leopold,  just  as  Helen 
entered  the  room  ;  and  she  heard  it. 

Wingfold  looked  to  her  for  the  answer  he  was  to 


4/2  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

make.  Her  bearing  was  much  altered  :  she  was  both 
ashamed  and  humbled. 

"Yes,  Leopold,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Wingfold  will,  I  am 
sure,  stay  with  you  as  long  as  he  can." 

"Indeed  I  will,"  assented  the  curate.  "But  I  must 
run  for  Mr.  Faber  first." 

"  How  did  I  come  here  ?"  asked  Leopold,  opening  his 
eyes  large  upon  Helen  after  swallowing  a  spoonful  of  the 
broth  she  held  to  his  lips.  But  before  she  could  answer 
him  he  turned  sick,  and  by  the  time  the  doctor  came  was 
very  feverish.  Faber  gave  the  necessary  directions, 
and  Wingfold  walked  back  with  him  to  get  his  prescrip- 
tion made  up. 


CHAPTER    LXXIII. 

THE  CURATE  AND  THE  DOCTOR. 

HERE  is  something  strange  about  that  young 
man's  illness,"  said   Faber,  as  soon  as  they 
had   left  the   house.     •'  I   fancy  you    know- 
more  than  you  can  tell ;  and  if  so,  then  I  have 
committed  no  indiscretion  in  saying  as  much." 

"  Perhaps  it  might  be  an  indiscretion  to  acknowledge 
as  much,  however,"  said  the  curate,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  are  right.  I  have  not  been  long  in  the  place," 
returned  Faber,  "  and  you  have  had  no  opportunity  of 
testing  me.  But  I  am  indifferent  honest  as  well  as  you, 
though  I  don't  go  with  you  in  every  thing." 

"  People  would  have  me  believe  you  don't  go  with  me 
in  any  thing." 

"They  say  as  much,  do  they ?"  returned  Faber,  with 
some  annoyance.  "  I  thought  I  had  been  careful  not  to 
trespass  on  your  preserves." 

"  As  for  preserves,  I  don't  know  of  any,"  answered  the 
curate.     "  There  is  no  true  bird  in  the  grounds   that 


474  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


won't  manage  somehow  to  escape  the  snare  of  the 
fowler." 

"  Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  know  nothing  about  God 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  but,  though  I  don't  think  I'm 
a  coward  exactly  either,  I  know  I  should  like  to  have 
your  pluck." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  pluck,"  said  the  curate. 

"Tell  that  to  the  marines,"  said  Faber.  "  I  daren't  go 
and  say  what  I  think  or  don't  think  even  in  the 
bedroom  of  my  least  orthodox  patient — at  least,  if  I  do,  I 
instantly  repent  it — while  you  go  on  saying  what  you 
really  believe  Sunday  after  Sunday  !  How  you  can  be- 
lieve it  I  don't  know,  and  it's  no  business  of  mine." 

"  Oh!  yes  it  is  !"  returned  Wingfold.  "  But  as  to  the 
pluck,  it  may  be  a  man's  duly  to  say  in  the  pulpit  what 
he  would  be  just  as  wrong  to  say  by  a  sick-bed." 

"  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  pluck  !  That's  all 
I  care  about." 

"  It  has  every  thing  to  do  with  what  you  take  for 
pluck.     My  pluck  is  only  Don  Worm." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that." 

"  It's  Benedick's  name,  in  Much  Ado  about  Nothing 
for  the  conscience.  My  pluck  is  nothing  but  my  con- 
science." 

"  It's  a  damned  fine  thing  to  have  anyhow,  whatever 
name  you  put  upon  it !"  said  Faber. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  find  your  epithet  more  amusing  than 
apt,"  said  Wingfold,  laughing. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Faber.     "  I  apologize." 

*' As  to  the  pluck  again,"  Wingfold  resumed,  "  if  you 


THE  CURATE  AND  THE  DOCTOR.         475 


think  of  this  one  fact :  that  my  whole  desire  is  to  be- 
lieve in  God,  and  that  the  only  thing  I  can  be  sure 
of  sometimes  is  that,  if  there  be  a  God,  none  but  an 
honest  man  will  ever  find  him  :  you  will  not  then  say 
there  is  much  pluck  in  my  speaking  the  truth  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  that  makes  it  a  hair  easier,  in  the 
face  of  such  a  set  of  gaping  noodles  as — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  :  there  is  more  lack  of  con- 
science than  of  brains  in  the  Abbey  of  a  Sunday,  I  fear." 

"  Well,  all  f  have  to  say  is,  1  can't  for  the  life  of  me 
see  what  you  want  to  believe  in  a  God  for  !  It  seems  to 
me  the  world  would  go  on  rather  better  without  any 
such  fancy.  Look  here,  now  :  there  is  young  Spenser — 
out  there  at  Horwood — a  patient  of  mine.  His  wife  died 
yesterday — one  of  the  loveliest  young  creatures  you  ever 
saw.  The  poor  fellow  is  as  bad  about  it  as  fellow  can 
bs.  Well,  he's  one  of  your  sort,  and  said  to  me  the 
other  day,  just  as  you  would  have  him,  *  It's  the  will  of 
God,  he  said,  '*and  we  must  hold  our  peace.'  '  Don't 
talk  to  me  about  God,'  I  said,  for  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
'  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if  there  was  a  God,  he 
would  have  taken  such  a  lovely  creature  as  that  away 
from  her  husband  and  her  helpless  infant  at  the  age  of 
two-andtwenty  ?     1  scorn  to  believe  it.'  " 

"  What  did  he  say  to  that  ?" 

"  He  turned  as  white  as  death,  and  said  never  a  word." 

"Ah  !  you  forgot  that  you  were  taking  from  him  his 
only  hope  of  seeing  her  again  I" 

"  I  certainly  did  not  think  of  that,"  said  Faber. 

"Even  then,"  resumed. Wlngfold,  "I  should  not  say 


476  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

you  were  wrong,  if  you  were  prepared  to  add  that  you 
had  searched  every  possible  region  of  existence,  and 
had  found  no  God  ;  or  that  you  had  tried  every  theory 
man  had  invented,  or  even  that  you  were  able  to  invent 
yourself,  and  had  found  none  of  them  consistent  with 
the  being  of  a  God.  I  do  not  say  that  then  you  would 
be  right  in  your  judgment,  for  another  man,  of  equal 
weight,  might  have  had  a  different  experience.  I  only 
say  I  would  not  then  blame  you.  But  you  must  allow 
it  a  very  serious  thing  to  assert  as  a  conviction,  with- 
out such  grounds  as  the  assertor  has  pretty  fully 
satisfied  himself  concerning,  what  could  only  drive  the 
sting  of  death  ten  times  deeper." 

The  doctor  was  silent. 

"  I  doubt  not  you  spoke  in  a  burst  of  indignation  ;  but 
it  seems  to  me  the  indignation  of  a  man  unaccustomed 
to  ponder  the  things  concerning  which  he  expresses 
such  a  positive  conviction." 

"  You  are  wrong  there,"  returned  Faber  ;  "  for  I  was 
brought  up  in  the  straitest  sect  of  the  Pharisees,  and 
know  what  I  am  saying." 

"  The  straitest  sect  of  the  Pharisees  can  hardly  be. 
the  school  in  which  to  gather  any  such  idea  of  a  God  as 
one  could  wish  to  be  a  reality." 

"They  profess  to  know.' 

"  Is  that  any  argument  of  weight,  they  and  their  opin- 
ions being  what  they  are  ?  If  there  be  a  God,  do  you 
imagine  he  would  choose  any  strait  sect  under  the  sun 
to  be  his  interpreters  V* 

"  But  the  question  is  not  of  the  idea  of  a  God,  but  of  the 


TKE  CURATE  AND  THE  DOCTOR.         477 

existence  of  any,  seeing,  if  he  exists,  he  must  be  such  as 
the  human  heart  could  never  accept  as  God,  inasmuch  as 
he  at  least  permits,  if  not  himself  enacts,  cruelty.  My 
argument  to  poor  Spenser  remains — however  unwise  or 
indeed  cruel  it  may  have  been." 

"  I  grant  it  a  certain  amount  of  force — as  much  exact- 
ly as  had  gone  to  satisfy  the  children  whom  I  heard  the 
other  day  agreeing  that  Dr.  Faber  was  a  very  cruel  man, 
for  he  pulled  out  nurse's  tooth,  and  gave  poor  little 
baby  such  a  nasty,  nasty  powder  !  " 

"  Is  that  a  fair  parallel  ?     I  must  look  at  it." 

"  I  think  it  is.  What  you  do  is  often  unpleasant, 
sometimes  most  painful,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  you 
are  a  cruel  man,«and  a  hurter  instead  of  a  healer  of  men." 

"  I  think  there  is  a  fault  in  the  analogy,"  said  Faber. 
"  For  here  am  I  nothing  but  a  slave  to  laws  already  ex- 
isting, and  compelled  to  work  according  to  them.  It  is 
not  my  fault,  therefore,  that  the  remedies  I  have  to  use 
are  unpleasant.  But  if  there  be  a  God,  he  has  the  mat- 
ter in  bis  own  hands." 

"There  is  weight  and  justice  in  your  argument,  which 
may  well  make  the  analogy  appear  at  first  sight  false. 
But  is  there  no  theory  possible  that  should  make  it  per- 
fect ?" 

"  I  do  not  see  how  there  should  be  any.  For,  if  you 
say  that  God  is  under  any  such  compulsion  as  I  am 
under,  then  surely  the  house  is  divided  against  it- 
self, and  God  is  not  God  any  more," 

"  For  my  part,"  said  the  curate,  "  I  think  I  could  be- 
lieve in  a  God  who  did  but  his  imperfect  best :  in  one 


47^  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

all  power,  and  not  all  goodness,  I  could  not  believe. 
But  suppose  that  the  design  of  God  involved  the  perfect- 
ing of  men  as  the  children  of  God — *  I  said  ye  are  gods  ' 
— that  he  would  have  them  partakers  of  his  own  blessed- 
ness in  kind — be  as  himself ; — suppose  his  grand  idea 
could  not  be  contented  with  creatures  perfect  on/y  by  his' 
gift,  so  far  as  that  should  reach,  and  having  no  willing 
causal  share  in  the  perfection — that  is,  partaking  not  at 
all  of  God's  individuality  and  free-will  and  choice  of 
good  ; — then  suppose  that  suffering  were  the  only  way 
through  which  the  individual  soul  could  be  set,  in  sepa- 
rate and  self-individuality,  so  far  apart  from  God  that 
it  might  tui//,  and  so  become  a  partaker  of  his  singleness 
and  freedom  ;  and  suppose  that  this  si>ffering  must  be 
and  had  been  initiated  by  God's  taking  his  share,  and 
that  the  infinitely  greater  share  ;  suppose,  next,  that 
God  saw  the  germ  of  a  pure  affection,  say  in  your  friend 
and  his  wife,  but  saw  also  that  it  was  a  germ  so  imper- 
fect and  weak  that  it  could  not  encounter  the  coming 
frosts  and  winds  of  the  world  without  loss  and  decay, 
while,  if  they  were  parted  now  for  a  few  years,  it  would 
grow  and  strengthen  and  expand  to  the  certainty  of  an 
infinitely  higher  and  deeper  and  keener  love  through 
the  endless  ages  to  follow — so  that  by  suffering  should 
come,  in  place  of  contented  decline,  abortion,  and  death, 
^  a  troubled  birth  of  joyous  result  in  health  and  immor- 
tality ; — suppose  all  this,  and  what  then  ?" 

Faber  was  silent  a  moment,  and  then  answered, 
"Your  theory  has  but  one  fault:  it  is  too  good  to 
be  true." 


THE  CURATE  AND  THE  DOCTOR.         479 

"  My  theory  leaves  plenty  of  difficulty,  but  has  no 
such  fault  as  that.  Why,  what  sort  of  a  God  would  con- 
tent you,  Mr.  Faber  ?  The  one  idea  is  too  bad,  the  oth- 
er too  good,  to  be  true.  Must  you  expand  and  pare  until 
you  get  one  exactly  to  the  measure  of  yourself  ere  you 
can  accept  it  as  thinkable  or  possible  ?  Why,  a  less  God 
than  that  would  not  rest  your  soul  a  week.  The  only 
possibility  of  believing  in  a  God  seems  to  me  to  lie  in 
finding  an  idea  of  a  God  large  enough,  grand  enough, 
pure  enough,  lovely  enough  to  be  fit  to  believe  in." 

"  And  have  you  found  such,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  I  think  I  am  finding  such." 

"  Where  ?" 

"  In  the  man  of  the  New  Testament.  I  have  thought 
a  little  more  about  these  things,  I  fancy,  than  you  have, 
Mr.  Faber  :  I  may  come  to  be  sure  of  something  ;  I  don't 
see  how  a  man  can  ever  be  sure  of  7tothing,'' 

"  Don't  suppose  me  quite  dumbfoundered,  though  I 
can't  answer  you  off-hand,"  said  Mr.  Faber,  as  they 
reached  his  door.  "  Come  in  with  me,  and  I  will  make 
up  the  medicine  myself  ;  it  will  save  time.  There  are  a 
thousand  difficulties,"  he  resumed  in  the  surgery,  "  some 
of  them  springing  from  peculiar  points  that  come  before 
one  of  my  profession,  which  I  doubt  if  you  would  be  able 
to  meet  so  readily.  But  about  this  poor  fellow  Lingard  : 
know  Glaston  gossip  says  he  is  out  of  his  mind." 

"  If  I  were  you,  Mr.  Faber,  I  would  not  take  pains  to 
contradict  it.  He  is  not  out  of  his  mind,  but  has  such 
trouble  in  it  as  might  well  drive  him  out.  Don't  you 
even  hint  at  that,  though." 


480  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  I  understand,"  said  Faber. 

"  If  doctor  and  minister  did  understand  each  other  and 
work  together,"  said  Wingfold,  "  I  fancy  a  good  deal 
more  might  be  done.'' 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  What  sort  of  fellow  is  that  cousin 
of  theirs — Bascombe  is  his  name,  I  believe  ?" 

"  A  man  to  suit  you.  I  should  think,"  said  the  curate  ; 
"a  man  with  a  most  tremendous  power  of  believing  in 
nothing." 

"  Come,  come  !"  returned  the  doctor,  "  you  don't  know 
half  enough  about  me  to  tell  what  sort  of  man  I 
should  like  or  dislike." 

"Well,  all  I  will  say  more  of  Bascombe  is  that  if  he 
were  not  conceited,  he  would  be  honest ;  and  if  he  were  as 
honest  as  he  believes  himself,  he  would  not  be  so  ready 
to  judge  every  one  dishonest  who  does  not  agree  with 
him." 

"  I  hope  we  may  have  another  talk  soon,"  said  the 
doctor,  searching  for  a  cork.  "  Some  day  I  may  tell 
you  a  few  things  that  may  stagger  you." 

"  Likely  enough  :  I  am  only  learning  to  walk  yet," 
said  Wingfold.  "  But  a  man  may  stagger  and  not  fall, 
and  I  am  ready  to  hear  any  thing  you  choose  to  tell  me." 

Faber  handed  him  the  bottle,  and  he  took  his  leave. 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 


HELEN     AND     THE     CURATE. 


EFORE  the  morning,  Leopold  lay  wound  in 
the  net  of  a  low  fever,  almost  as  ill  as  ever, 
but  with  this  difference,  that  his  mind  was 
far  less  troubled,  and  that  even  his  most 
restless  dreams  no  longer  scared  him  awake  to  a  still 
nearer  assurance  of  misery.  And  yet  many  a  time,  as 
she  watched  by  his  side,  it  was  excruciatingly  plain  to 
Helen  that  the  stuff  of  which  his  dreams  were  made  was 
the  last  process  to  the  final  execution  of  the  law.  She 
thought  she  could  follow  it  all  in  his  movements  and 
the  expressions  of  his  countenance.  At  a  certain  point 
the  cold  dew  always  appeared  on  his  forehead,  after 
which  invariably  came  a  smile,  and  He  would  be  quiet 
until  near  morning,  when  the  same  signs  again  appear- 
ed. Sometimes  he  would  murmur  prayers,  and  some- 
times it  seemed  to  Helen  that  he  must  fancy  himself 
talking  face  to  face  with  Jesus,  for  the  look  of  blessed 
and  trustful  awe  upon  his  countenance  was  amazing  in 
its  beaut3^ 


482  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

For  Helen  herself,  she  was  prey  to  a  host  of  change- 
ful emotions.  At  one  time  she  accused  herself  bitterly 
of  having  been  the  cause  of  the  return  of  his  illness  . 
the  next  a  gush  of  gladness  would  swell  her  heart  at  the 
thought  that  now  she  had  him  at  least  safer  for  a  while, 
and  that  he  might  die  and  so  escape  the  whole  crowd  of 
horrible  possibilities.  For  George's  manipulation  of  the 
magistrate  could  but  delay  the  disclosure  of  the  truth  ; 
even  should  no  discovery  be  made,  Leopold  must  at 
length  suspect  a  trick,  and  that  would  at  once  drive 
him  to  fresh  action. 

But  amongst  the  rest,  a  feeling  which  had  but  lately 
begun  to  indicate  its  far-off  presence  now  threatened  to 
bring  with  it  a  deeper  and  more  permanent  sorrow :  it 
became  more  and  more  plain  to  her  that  she  had  taken 
the  evil  part  against  the  one  she  loved  best  in  the 
world  ;  that  she  had  been  as  a  Satan  to  him  ;  had  driven 
him  back,  stood  almost  bodily  in  the  way  to  turn  him 
from  the  path  of  peace.  Whether  the  path  he  had 
sought  to  follow  was  the  only  one  or  not,  it  was  the 
only  one  he  knew  ;  and  that  it  was  at  least  a  true  one 
was  proved  by  the  fact  that  he  had  already  found  in  it 
the  beginnings  of  the  peace  he  sought ;  while  she,  for 
the  avoidance  of  shame  and  pity,  for  the  sake  of  the  fam- 
ily, as  she  had  said  to  herself,  had  pursued  a  course 
which  if  successful  would  at  best  have  resulted  in  shut- 
ting him  up  as  in  a  madhouse  with  his  own  inborn 
horrors,  with  vain  remorse,  and  equally  vain  longing. 
Her  conscience,  now  that  her  mind  was  quieter,  from 
the  greater  distance  to  which  the  threatening  peril  had 


HELEN  AND  THE  CURATE.  483 

again  withdrawn,  had  taken  the  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing louder.  And  she  hstened,  but  still  with  one  ques- 
tion ever  presented  :  Why  might  he  not  appropriate  the 
consolations  of  the  gospel  without  committing  the  sui- 
cide of  surrender.^  She  could  not  see  that  confession 
was  the  very  door  of  refuge  and  safety  towards  which 
he  must  press. 

George's  absence  was  now  again  a  reiier,  and  while 
she  feared  and  shrank  from  the  severity  of  Wingfold, 
she  could  not  help  a  certain  indescribable  sense  of  safe- 
ty in  his  presence — at  least  so  long  as  Leopold  was  too 
ill  to  talk. 

For  the  curate,  he  became  more  and  more  interested 
in  the  woman  who  could  love  sc  strongly  and  3^et  not 
entirely,  who  suffered  and  must  still  suffer  so  much,  and 
whom  a  faith  even  no  greater  than  his  own  might  ren- 
der comparatively  blessed.  The  desire  to  help  her 
grew  and  grew  in  him,  but  he  could  see  no  way  of  reach- 
ing her.  And  then  he  began  to  discover  one  peculiar 
advantage  belonging  to  the  little  open  chamber  of  the 
pulpit — open  not  only  or  specially  to  heaven  above,  but^ 
to  so  many  of  the  secret  chambers  of  the  souls  of  the 
congregation.  For  what  a  man  dares  not,  could  not  if 
he  dared,  and  dared  not  if  he  could,  say  to  another  even 
at  the  time  and  in  the  place  fittest  of  all,  he  can  say 
thence,  open-faced,  before  the  whole  congregation,  and 
the  person  in  need  thereof  may  hear  it  without  umbrnge 
or  the  choking  husk  of  individual  application,  irritating 
to  the  rejection  of  what  truth  may  lie  in  it  for  him. 
Would  that  our  pulpits  were  all  in  the  power  of  such 


484  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

men  as  by  suffering  know  the  human,  and  by  obedience 
the  divine  heart  !  Then  would  the  office  of  instruction 
be  no  more  mainly  occupied  by  the  press, •but  the  faces 
of  true  men  would  everywhere  be  windows  for  the 
light  of  the  Spirit  to  enter  other  men's,  souls,  and  the 
voice  of  their  words  would  follow  with  the  forms  of 
what  truth  tliey  saw,  and  the  power  of  the  Lord  would 
speed  from  heart  to  heart.  Then  would  men  soon  un- 
derstand that  not  the  form  of  even  soundest  words 
availeth  any  thing,  but  a  new  creature. 

When  Wingfold  was  in  the  pulpit,  then,  he  could  speak 
as  from  the  secret  to  the  secret ;  but  elsewhere  he  felt, 
in  regard  to  Helen,  like  a  transport-ship  filled  with 
troops,  which  must  go  sailing  around  the  shores  of  an 
invaded  ally,  in  frustrate  search  for  a  landing.  Oh  !  to 
help  that  woman,  that  the  light  of  life  might  go  up  in  her 
heart  and  her  cheek  bloom  again  with  the  rose  of 
peace  !  But  not  a  word  could  he  speak  in  her  presence, 
for  he  heard  every  thing  he  would  have  said  as  he 
thought  it  would  sound  to  her,  and  therefore  he  had  no 
^  utterance.  Is  it  an  infirmity  of  certain  kinds  of  men,  or 
a  wise  provision  for  their  protection,  that  the  brightest 
forms  the  truth  takes  in  their  private  cogitations  seem 
to  lose  half  their  lustre  and  all  their  g-race  when  uttered 
in  the  presence  of  an  unreceptive  nature,  and  they  hear, 
as  it  were,  their  own  voice  reflected  in  a  poor,  dull,  in- 
harmonious echo,  and  are  disgusted  ? 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  ever  in  the  pauses  of  the 
rushing,  ever  in  the  watery  gleams  of  life  that  broke 
through  the   clouds  and   drifts   of   the  fever,  Leopold 


HELEN    AND    THE   CURATE.  485 

sought  his  friend,  and,  finding  him,  shone  into  a  brief 
radiance,  or,  missing  him,  gloomed  back  into  the  land  of 
visions.  The  tenderness  of  the  curate's  service,  the 
heart  that  showed  itself  in  every  thing  he  did,  even  in 
the  turn  and  expression  of  the  ministering  hand,  was  a 
kind  of  revelation  to  Helen.  For  while  his  intellect 
was  hanging  about  the  door,  asking  questions,  and  un- 
easily shifting  hither  and  thither  in  its  unloved  per- 
plexities, the  spirit  of  the  Master  had  gone  by  it  unseen, 
and  entered  into  the  chamber  of  his  heart. 

After  preaching  the  sermon  last  recorded,  there  came 
a  reaction  of  doubt  and  depression  on  the  mind  of  the 
curate,  greater  than  usual.  Had  he  not  gone  farther 
than  his  right .'  Had  he  not  implied  more  conviction 
than  was  his  ?  Words  could  not  go  beyond  his  satisfac- 
tion with  what  he  found  in  the  gospel,  or  the  hopes  for 
the  range  of  his  conscious  life  springing  therefrom,  but 
was  he  not  now  making  people  suppose  him  more  cer- 
tain of  the  /nc/  of  these  thing-s  than  he  was  ?  He  was 
driven  to  console  himself  with  the  reflection  that  so 
long  as  he  had  had  no  such  intention,  even  if  he  had 
been  so  carried  away  by  the  delight  of  his  heart  as  to  give 
such  an  impression,  it  mattered  little  :  what  was  it  to 
other  people  what  he  believed  or  how  he  believed  ?  If 
he  had  not  been  untrue  to  himself,  no  harm  would  fol- 
low. Was  a  man  never  to  talk  from  the  highest  in  him 
to  the  forgetting  of  the  lower.''  W^as  a  man  never  to  be 
carried  beyond  himself  and  the  regions  of  his  knowledge  ? 
If  so,  then  farewell  poetry  and  prophecy — 5'^ea,  all  grand 
discovery  !   for  things   must  be  foreseen  ere  they  can 


486  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

be  realized — apprehended  ere  they  be   comprehended. 

^  This  much  he  could  say  for  himself,  and  no  more:  that 
he  was  ready  to  lay  down  his  life  for  the  mere  chance,  if 
he  might  so  use  the  word,  of  these  things  being  true  ; 
nor  did  he  argue  any  devotion  in  that,  seeing  life  with- 
out them  would  be  to  him  a  waste  of  unreality.  He 
could  bear  witness  to  no  facts,  but  to  the  truth,  to  the 
loveliness  and  harmony  and  righteousness  and  safe- 
ty that  he  saw  in  the  idea  of  the  Son  of  Man — as  he 
read  it  in  the  story.  He  dared  not  say  what,  in  a  time 
of  persecution,  torture  might  work  upon  him,  but  he 
felt  right  hopeful  that,  even  were  he  base  enough  to  deny 
him,  any  cock  might  crow  him  back  to  repentance.  At 
the  same  time  he  saw  plain  enough  that  even  if  he  gave 
his  body  to  be  burned,  it  were  no  sufficing  assurance  of 

^  his  Christianity  :  nothing  could  satisfy  him  of  that  less 
than  the  conscious  presence  of  the  perfect  charity. 
Without  that  he  was  still  outside  the  kingdom,  wander- 
ing in  a  dream  around  its  walls. 

Difficulties  went  on  presenting  themselves  ;  at  times  he 
would  be  whelmed  in  the  tossing  waves  of  contradiction 
and  impossibility  ;  but  still  his  head  would  come  up  into 
the  air,  and  he  would  get  a  breath  before  he  went  down 
again.  And  with  every  fresh  conflict,  every  fresh  gleam 
of  doubtful  victory,  the  essential  idea  of  the  Master 
looked  more  and  more  lovely.  And  he  began  to  seethe 
working  of  his  doubts  on  the  growth  of  his  heart  and 
soul — both  widening  and  realizing  his  faith,  and  pre- 
^     venting  it  from  becoming  faith  in  an  idea  of  God  instead 


HELEN    AND   THE   CURATE.  487 

of  in  the  living  God — the  God  beyond  as  well  as  in  the 
heart  that  thought  and  willed  and  imagined. 

He  had  much  time  for  reflection  as  he  sat  silent  by  the 
bedside  of  Leopold.  Sometimes  Helen  would  be  sitting 
near,  though  generally  when  he  arived  she  went  out 
for  her  walk,  but  never  anything  came  to  him  he  could  y 
utter  to  her.  And  she  was  one  of  those  who  learn  little 
from  other  people.  A  change  must  pass  upon  her  ere 
she  could  be  rightly  receptive.  Some  vapor  or  other 
that  clouded  her  being  must  be  driven  to  the  winds 
first. 

Mrs.  Ramshorn  had  become  at  least  reconciled  to  the 
frequent  presence  of  the  curate,  partly  from  the  testi- 
mony of  Helen,  partly  from  the  witness  of  her  own 
eyes  to  the  quality  of  his  ministrations.  She  was  by  no 
means  one  of  the  loveliest  among  women,  yet  she  had  a 
heart,  and  could  appreciate  some  kinds  of  goodness 
which  the  arrogance  of  her  relation  to  the  church  did 
not  interfere  to  hide — for  nothing  is  so  deadening  to  the 
divine  as  an  habitual  dealing  with  the  outsides  of  holy 
things — and  she  became  half  friendly  and  quite  courteous 
when  she  met  the  curate  on  the  stair,  and  would  now 
and  then,  when  she  thought  of  it,  bring  him  a  glass  of 
wmt  as  he  sat  by  the  bedside. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 


AN       EXAMINATION 


HE  acquaintance  between  the  draper  and  the 
gate-keeper  rapidly  ripened  into  friendship. 
Very  generally,  as  soon  as  he  had  shut  his 
shop,  Drew  would  walk  to  the  park  gate 
to  see  Polwarth  ;  and  three  times  a  week  at  least,  the 
curate  made  one  ot  the  party.  Much  was  then  talked, 
more  was  thought,  and,  I  venture  to  say,  more  yet  was 
understood. 

One  evening  the  curate  went  earlier  than  usual,  and 
had  tea  with  the  Polwarth s. 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  asked  of  his  host,  "  once 
putting  to  me  the  question,  what  our  Lord  came  into 
this  world  for  ?" 

"I  do,"  answered  Polwarth. 

"  And  you  remember  I  answered  you  wrong :  I  said  it 
was  to  save  the  world  ?" 

"  I  do.  But  remember,  I  said  primarily  ;  for  of  course 
he  did  come  to  save  the  world." 


AN    EXAMINATION.  489 


"  Yes,  just  SO  you  put  it.  Well,  I  think  I  can  answer 
the  question  correctly  now  ;  and  in  learning  the  true 
answer,  I  have  learned  much.  Did  he  not  come  first  of 
all  to  do  the  will  of  his  Father  ?  Was  not  his  Father 
first  with  him  always  and  in  every  thing — hisfellowmen 
next;  for  they  were  his  Father's  ?" 

"  I  need  not  say  it — you  know  that  you  are  right. 
Jesus  is  tenfold  a  real  person  to  you,  is  he  not,  since  you 
discovered  that  truth  ?" 

"  I  think  so  ;  I  hope  so.  It  does  seem  as  if  a  grand, 
simple  reality  had  begun  to  dawn  upon  me  out  of  the 
fog — the  form  as  of  a  man  pure  and  simple,  because  the 
eternal  son  of  the  Father." 

•'  And  now,  may  I  not  ask,  are  you  able  to  accept  the 
miracles,  things  in  themselves  so  improbable  ?" 

*'  If  we  suppose  the  question  settled  as  to  whether  the 
man  was  what  he  said,  then  all  that  remains  is  to  ask 
whether  the  works  reported  of  him  are  consistent  with 
what  you  can  see  of  the  character  of  the  man." 

"And  to  you  they  seem — ?" 

"  Some  consistent,  others  not.  Concerning  the  latter 
I  look  for  more  light." 

"  Meantime  let  me  ask  you  a  question  about  them : 
What  was  the  main  object  of  the  miracles  T' 

"  One  thing  at  least  I  have  learned,  Mr.  Polwarth,  and 
that  is  not  to  answer  any  question  of  yours  in  a  hurry," 
said  Wingfold.  "  I  will,  if  you  please,  take  this  one 
home  with  me,  and  hold  the  light  to  it." 

"  Do,"  said  Polwarth,  "  and  you  will  find  it  return  you 


490  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

the  light  threefold.      One   word  more   ere   Mr.    Drew 
comes  :  do  you  still  think  of  giving  up  your  curacy  ?" 

"  I  have  almost  forgotten  I  ever  thought  of  such  a 
thing.  Whatever  energies  I  may  or  may  not  have,  I 
know  one  thing  for  certain  :  that  I  could  not  devote 
them  to  any  thing  else  I  should  think  entirely  worth  do- 
ing. Indeed,  nothing  else  seems  interesting  enough, 
nothing  to  repay  the  labor,  but  the  telling  of  my  fel- 
low-men about  the  one  man  who  is  the  truth,  and  to 
know  whom  is  the  life.  Even  if  there  be  no  hereafter. 
I  would  live  my  time  believing  in  a  grand  thing  that 
ought  to  be  true  if  it  is  not.  No  facts  can  take  the  place 
-"  of  truths ;  and  if  these  be  not  truths,  then  is  the  loftiest 
part  of  our  nature  a  waste.  Let  me  hold  by  the  better 
than  the  actual,  and  fall  into  nothingness  off  the  same 
precipice  with  Jesus  and  John  and  Paul  and  a  thousand 
more,  who  were  lovely  in  their  lives,  and  with  their  death 
make  even  the  nothingness  into  which  they  have  passed 
like  the  garden  of  the  Lord.  I  will  go  farther,  Polwarth, 
and  say  I  would  rather  die  forevermore  believing  as  Jesus 
believed,  than  live  forevermore  believing  as  those  that 
deny  him.  If  there  be  no  God,  I  feel  assured  that  this 
existence  is  and  could  be  but  a  chaos  of  contradictions 
whence  can  emerge  nothing  worthy  to  be  called  a  truth, 
nothing  worth  living  for. — No,  I  will  not  give  up  my 
curacy.  I  will  teach  that  which  zs  good,  even  if  there 
should  be  no  God  to  make  a  fact  of  it,  and  I  will  spend 
my  life  on  it  in  the  growing  hope,  which  may  become 
assurance,  that  there  is  indeed  a  perfect  God,  worthy  ot 
being  the  Father  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  that  it  was  because 


AN    EXAMINATION.  49I 


they  are  true  that  these  things  were  lovely  to  me  and  to 
so  many  men  and  women,  of  whom  some  have  died  for 
them  and  some  would  be  yet  ready  to  die." 

"  I  thank  my  God  to  hear  you  say  so.  Nor  will  you 
stand  still  there,"  said  Polwarth.  "  But  here  comes  Mr. 
Drew." 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 


IMMORTALITY. 


OW  goes  business  ?"   said  Polwarth,  when  the 
new-comer  had  seated  himself. 

"That  is  hardly  a  question  I  look  for  from 
you,  sir,"  returned  the  draper,  smihng  all 
over  his  round  face,  which  looked  more  ihan  ever  like  a 
moon  of  superior  intelligence.  "  For  me,  I  am  glad  to 
leave  it  behind  me  in  the  shop." 

"  True  business  can  never  be  left  in  any  shop.  It  is  a 
care,  white  or  black,  that  sits  behind  every  horseman." 
"  That  is  fact ;  and  with  me  it  has  just  taken  a  new 
shape,"  said  Drew,  "  for  I  have  come  with  quite  a  fresh 
difii.culty.  Since  I  saw  you  last,  Mr.  Polwarth,  a  stran^-e 
and  very  uncomfortable  doubt  has  rushed  in  upon  me, 
and  I  find  myself  altogether  unfit  to  tackle  it.  I  have  no 
weapons — not  a  single  argument  of  the  least  weij^ht.  I 
wonder  if  it  be  a  law  of  nature  that  no  sooner  shall  a 
man  get  into  a  muddle  with  one 'thing,  than  a  thousand 
other  muddles  shall  come  pouring  in  upon  him,  as  if 
Muddle  itself  were  going  to  swallow  him  up  !    Here  am  I 


IMMORTALITY.  493 


just  beginning  to  get  a  little  start  in  honester  ways,  when 
up  comes  the  ugly  head  ot  the  said  doubt,  swelling  itself 
more  and  more  to  look  like  a  fact — namely,  that  after 
this  world  there  is  nothing  for  us  ;  nothing  at  all  to  be 
had  an5^how  ;  that  as  we  came,  so  we  go :  into  life,  out 
of  life  ;  that,  having  been  nothing  before,  we  shall  be 
nothing  after  !  The  flowers  come  back  in  the  spring 
and  the  corn  in  the  autumn,  but  they  ain't  the  same 
flowers  or  the  same  corn.  They're  just  as  different  as 
the  new  generations  of  men." 

"  There's  no  pretence  that  we  come  back  either.  We 
only  think  we  don't  go  into  the  ground,  but  away  some- 
where else." 

"  You  can't  prove  that." 

"No." 

"  And  you  don't  know  any  thing  about  it !" 

"  Not  much — but  enough,  I  think." 

'•  Why,  even  those  that  profess  to  believe  it,  scoff  at 
the  idea  of  an  apparition — a  ghost !" 

"That's  the  fault  of  the  ghosts,  I  suspect — or  their 
reporters.  I  don't  care  about  them  myself.  I  prefer 
the  tale  of  one  who,  they  say,  rose  again  and  brought 
his  body  with  him." 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  was  only  one  !" 

"  Except  two  or  three  whom,  they  say,  he  brought  to 
life." 

"  Still  there  are  but  three  or  four." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  do  not  care  much  to  argue 
the  point  with  you.  It  is  by  no  means  a  matter  of  the 
first  importance  whether  we  live  forever  or  not."  ^ 


494  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  Mr.  Polwarth  !"  exclaimed  the  draper,  in  such  aston- 
ishment mingled  with  horror  as  proved  he  was  not  in 
immediate  danger  of  becoming  an  advocate  of  the  doc- 
trine of  extinction. 

The  gate-keeper  smiled  what,  but  for  a  peculiar  ex- 
pression of  undefinable  good  in  it,  might  have  been 
called  a  knowing  smile. 

"  Suppose  a  thing  were  in  itself  not  worth  having," 
he  said,  "  would  it  be  any  great  enhancement  of  it  as  a 
gift  to  add  the  assurance  that  the  possession  of  it  was 
eternal?  Most  people  think  it  a  fine  thing  to  have  a 
bit  of  land  to  call  their  own  and  leave  to  their  children  ; 
but  suppose  a  stinking  and  undrainable  swamp,  full  of 
foul  springs  :  what  consolation  would  it  be  to  the  pro- 
prietor of  that  to  know,  while  the  world  lasted,  not  a  hu- 
man being  would  once  dispute  its  possession  with  any- 
fortunate  descendant  holding  it  ?" 

The  draper  only  stared,  but  his  stare  was  a  thorough 
one.  The  curate  sat  waiting,  with  both  amusement  and 
interest,  for  what  would  follow  ;  he  saw  the  direction  in 
which  the  little  man  was  driving. 

"  You  astonish  me  !"  said  Mr.  Drew,  recovering  his 
mental  breath.  "  How  can  you  compare  God's  gift  to 
such  a  horrible  thing  !  Where  should  we  be  without 
life?" 

Rachel  burst  out  laughing,  and  the  curate  could  not 
help  joining  her.  "  Mr.  Drew,"  said  Polwarth  half 
merrily,  "are  you  going  to  help  me  drag  my  chain  out  to 
its  weary  length,  or  are  you  too  much  shocked  at  the 


IMMORTALITY.  495 


doubtful  condition  of  its  first  links  to  touch  them  ?     I 
promise  you  the  last  shall  be  of  bright  gold." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  draper  ;  "  I  might  have 
known  you  didn't  mean  it." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  mean  every  thing  I  say,  and  that 
literally.  Perhaps  1  don't  mean  every  thing  you  fancy  I 
mean.  Tell  me,  then,  would  life  be  worth  having  on  any 
and  every  possible  condition  ?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"  You  know  some,  I  dare  say,  who  would  be  glad  to 
be  rid  of  life  such  as  it  is,  and  such  as  they  suppose  it 
must  continue  ?" 

"  I  don't." 

"Ido." 

"  I  have  always  understood  that  every  body  clung  to 
hfe." 

"  Most  people  do  ;  every  body  certainly  does  not :  Job, 
for  instance." 

"  They  say  that  is  but  a  poem." 

"  Bu^  a  poem  !  Even  a  poem — a  representation  true 
not  of  this  or  that  individual,  but  of  the  race  I  There 
are  such  persons  as  would  gladly  be  rid  of  life,  and  in 
their  condition  all  would  feel  the  same.  Somewhat  sim- 
ilar is  the  state  of  those  who  profess  unbelief  in  the  ex-» 
istence  of  God  :  none  of  them  expect,  and  few  of  them 
seem  to  wish,  to  live  forever !     At  least  so  I  am  told." 

"  That  is  no  wonder,"  said  the  draper  ;  "  if  they  don't 
believe  in  God,  I  mean." 

"  Then  there  I  have  you  !  There  you  allow  life  to  be 
not  worth  having,  if  on  certain  evil  conditions." 


496  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  I  admit  it,  then." 

"And  I  repeat  that  to  prove  life  endless  is  not  a  mat- 
ter of  the  Jirsi  importance.  And  now  I  will  go  a  little 
farther.  Does  it  follow  that  life  is  worth  having  be- 
cause a  man  would  like  to  have  it  forever?" 

"  I  should  say  so  :  who  should  be  a  better  judge  than 
the  man  himself.^" 

"  Let  us  look  at  it  a  moment.  Suppose — we  will  take 
a  strong  case — suppose  a  man  whose  whole  delight  is  in 
cruelty,  and  who  has  such  plentiful  opportunity  of  in- 
dulging the  passion  that  he  finds  it  well  with  him  ;  such 
a  man,  of  course,  would  desire  such  a  life  to  endure  for- 
ever :  is  such  a  life  worth  having  ?  were  it  well  that  man 
should  be  immortal  ?" 

'•  Not  for  others." 

"  Still  less,  1  say,  for  himself." 

"  In  the  judgment  of  others,  doubtless  ;  but  to  him- 
self he  would  be  happy." 

"Call  his  horrible  satisfaction  happiness,  then,  and. 
leave  aside  the  fact  that  in  his  own  nature  it  is  a  horror 
and  not  a  bliss  :  a  time  must  come  when,  in  the  exercise 
of  his  delight,  he  shall  have  destroyed  all  life  beside, 
and  made  himself  alone  with  himself  in  an  empty  world  : 
will  he  then  find  life  worth  having?" 

'Then  he  ought  to  live  for  punishment." 

"  With  that  we  have  nothing  to  do  now,  but  there  you 
have  given  me  an  answer  to  my  question,  whether  a 
man's  judgment  that  his  life  is  worth  having  proves 
immortality  a  thing  to  be  desired." 

"  I  have.     I  understand  now." 


IMMORTALITY.  497 


"  It  follows  that  there  is  something  of  prior  impor- 
tance to  the  possession  of  immortality  :  what  is  that 
something  ?" 

"  I  suppose  that  the  immortality  itself  should  be 
worth  possessing." 

"  Yes  ;  that  the  life  should  be  such  that  it  were  well 
it  should  be  endless.    And  what  then  if  it  be  not  such  ?" 

"  The  question  then  would  be  whether  it  could  not 
be  made  such." 

"  You  are  right.  And  wherein  consists  the  essential 
inherent  worthiness  of  a  life  as  life  ?  The  only  perfect 
idea  of  life  is — a  unit,  self-existent  and  creative.  That 
is  God,  the  only  one.  But  to  this  idea,  in  its  kind,  must 
every  life,  to  be  complete  as  life,  correspond ;  and  the 
human  correspondence  to  self-existence  is  that  the  man 
should  round  and  complete  himself  by  taking  into  him- 
self his  origin  ;  by  going  back  and  in  his  own  will  adopt- 
ing that  origin,  rooting  therein  afresh  in  the  exercise  of 
his  own  freedom  and  in  all  the  energy  of  his  own  self- 
roused  will ;  in  other  words,  that  the  man  say, '  I  will 
be  after  the  will  of  the  creating  // '  that  he  see  and  say 
with  his  whole  being  that  to  will  the  will  of  God  in  him- 
self and  for  himself  and  concerning  himself  is  the 
highest  possible  condition  of  a  man.  Then  has  he  com- 
pleted his  cycle  by  turning  back  upon  his  history,  laying 
hold  of  his  cause,  and  willing  his  own  being  in  the  will  * 
of  the  only  I  AM.  This  is  the  rounding,  re-creating, 
unifying  of  the  man.  This  is  religion  ;  and  all  that 
gathers  not  with  this,  scatters  abroad." 

"And  then,"  said  Drew,  with  some  eagerness,  "law- 


49^  THOMAS   WINGFOLP,   CURATE. 

fully  comes  the  question, '  Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  live  fof 
ever?  '  " 

"  Pardon  me  ;  I  think  not,"  returned  the  little  pro- 
phet. "  I  think  rather  we  have  done  with  it  forever. 
The  man  with  life  so  in  himself  will  not  dream  of  asking 
whether  he  shall  live.  It  is  only  in  the  twilight  of  a 
half-life,  holding  in  it  at  once  much  wherefore  it  should 
desire  its  own  continuance  and  much  that  renders  it 
unworthy  of  continuance,  that  the  doubtful  desire  of 
immortality  can  arise.  Do  you  remember" — here  Pol- 
warth  turned  to  Wingfold — "  my  mentioning  to  you 
once  a  certain  manuscript  of  strange  interest — to  me,  at 
least,  and  Rachel — which  a  brother  of  mine  left  behind 
him  }" 

"  I  remember  it  perfectly,"  answered  the  curate. 

"  It  seems  so  to  mingle  with  all  I  ever  think  on  this 
question  that  I  should  much  like,  if  you  gentlemen 
would  allow  me,  to  read  some  extracts  from  it." 

Nothing  could  have  been  heartier  than  the  assurance 
of  both  the  men  that  they  could  but  be  delighted  to 
listen  to  any  thing  he  chose  to  give  them. 

'•  I  must  first  tell  you,  however,"  said  Polwarth, 
*'  merely  to  protect  you  from  certain  disturbing  specu- 
lations otherwise  sure  to  present  themselves,  that  my 
poor  brother  was  mad,  and  that  what  I  now  read  portions 
of  seemed  to  him  no  play  of  the  imagination,  but  a  rec- 
ord of  absolute  fact.  Some  parts  are  stranger  and  less 
intelligible  than  others,  but  through  it  all  there  is  abun- 
dance of  intellectual  movement  and  what  seems  to  me 
a  wonderful  keenness  to  perceive  the  movements  and 


IMMORTALITY.  499 


arrest  the  indications  of  an  imagined  consciousness." 
As  he  spoke,  ttie  little  man  was  opening  a  cabinet  in 
which  he  kept  his  precious  things.  He  brought  from  it 
a  good-sized  quarto  volume,  neatly  bound  in  morocco, 
with  gilt  edges,  which  he  seemed  to  handle  not  merely 
with  respect  but  with  tenderness. 

The  heading  of  the  next  chapter  is  rny  own,  and  does 
not  belong  to  the  manuscript. 


CHAPTER    LXXVII. 

PASSAGES    FROM    THE    AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF    THE 
WANDERING    JEW. 

HAVE  at  length  been  ill,  very  ill,  once  more, 
and  for  many  reasons  foreign  to  the  weighti- 
est, which  I  had  forgotten,  I  had  hoped  that 
I  was  going  to  die.  But  therein  I  am  as 
usual  deceived  and  disappointed.  That  I  have  been  out 
of  my  mind  I  know  by  having  returned  to  the  real 
knowledge  of  what  I  am.  The  conscious  present  has 
again  fallen  together  and  made  a  whole  with  the  past, 
and  that  whole  is  my  personal  identity. 

"  '  How  I  broke  loose  from  the  bonds  of  a  madness 
which,  after  so  many  and  heav^y  years  of  uninterrupted 
sanity,  had  at  length  laid  hold  upon  me,  I  will  row 
relate. 

"  '  I  had,  as  I  have  said,  been  very  ill — with  some  sort 
of  fever  that  had  found  fit  rooting  in  a  brain  overwea- 
ried from  not  having  been  originally  constructed  to  last 
so  long.  Whether  it  came  not  of  an  indwelling  demon, 
or  a  legion  of  demons,  I  can  not  tell — God  knows. 
Surely  I  was  as  one  possessed.  I  was  mad,  whether  for 
years  or  but  for  moments — who  can  tell  ?  I  can  not. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   THE   WANDERING  JEW.         50I 

Verily  it  seems  for  many  years  ;  but,  knowing  well  the 
truth  concerning  the  relations  of  time  in  him  tha^  drearn- 
eth  and  waketh  from  his  dream,  I  place  no  confidence 
in  the  testimony  of  the  impressions  left  upon  my  seeming 
memory.  I  can,  however,  trust  it  sufficiently  as  to  the 
character  of  the  illusions  that  then  possessed  me.  I  im- 
agined myself  an  Englishman  called  Polwarth.  of  an 
ancient  Cornish  family.  Indeed,  I  had  in  my  imagination 
as  Polwarth  gone  through  the  history,  every  day  of  it, 
with  its  sunrise  and  sunset,  of  more  than  half  a  lifetime. 
I  had  a  brother  who  was  deformed  and  a  dwarf,  and  a 
daughter  who  was  like  him  ;  and  the  only  thing  through- 
out the  madness  that  approached  a  consciousness  of  my 
real  being  and  history  was  the  impression  that  these 
things  had  come  upon  me  because  of  a  certain  grievous 
wrong  I  had  at  one  time  committed,  which  wrong,  how- 
ever, I  had  quite  forgotten — and  could  ill  have  imagined 
in  its  native  hideousness. 

"  '  But  one  morning,  just  as  I  woke,  after  a  restless 
night  filled  with  dreams,  I  was  aware  of  {i  half- 
embodied  shadow  in  my  mind — ^whether  thought  or 
memory  or  imagination  I  could  not  tell,  and  the 
strange  thing  was  that  it  darkly  radiated  from  it  the 
conviction  that  1  must  hold  and  identify  it,  or  be  for- 
ever lost  to  myself.  Therefore,  with  all  the  might  of 
my  will  to  retain  the  shadow,  and  all  the  energy  of  my 
recollection  to  recall  that  of  which  it  was  the  vague 
shadow,  I  concentrated  the  whole  powers  of  my  spirit- 
ual man  upon  the  phantom  thought,  to  fix  and  retain  it. 

" '  Every  one  knows  what  it  is  to  hunt  such  a  form- 


502  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

less  fact.  Evanescent  as  a  rainbow,  its  whole  appear- 
ance, from  the  first  is  that  of  a  thing  in  the  act  of  van- 
ishing. It  is  a  thing  that  tuas  known,  but,  from  the  mo- 
ment consciousness  turned  its  lantern  upon  it,  began  to 
become  invisible.  For  a  time  during  the  close  pursuit 
that  follows,  it  seems  only  to  be  turning  corner  after 
corner  to  evade  the  mind's  eye,  but  behind  every  corner 
it  leaves  a  portion  of  itself  ;  until  at  length,  although 
when  finally  can  not  be  told,  it  is  gone  so  utterly  that 
the  mind  remains  aghast  in  the  perplexity  of  the  doubt 
whether  ever  there  was  a  thought  there  at  all. 

"  *  Throughout  my  delusion  of  an  English  existence,  I 
had  been  tormented  in  my  wakings  with  such  thought- 
phantoms,  and  ever  had  I  followed  them  as  an  idle  man 
may  follow  a  flitting  marsh-fire.  Indeed,  I  had  grown 
so  much  interested  in  the  phenomenon  and  its  possible 
indications  that  I  had  invented  various  theories  to  ac- 
count for  them,  some  of  which  seemed  to  myself  origi- 
nal and  ingenious,  while  the  common  idea  that  they  are 
vague  reminiscences  of  a  former  state  of  being  I  had 
again  and  again  examined,  and  as  often  entirely  rejected 
as  in  no  way  tenable  or  verisimilar. 

"  '  But  upon  the  morning  to  which  I  have  referred,  I 
succeeded,  for  the  first  time,  in  fixing,  capturing,  identi- 
fying the  haunting,  fluttering  thing.  That  moment  the 
bonds  of  my  madness  were  broken.  My  past  returned 
upon  me.  I  had  but  to  think  in  any  direction,  and 
every  occurrence,  with  time  and  place  and  all  its  circum- 
stance, rose  again  before  me.  The  awful  fact  of  my  own 
being   once    more    stood    bare — awful    always,   tenfold 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY    OF   THE   WANDERING   JEW.         503 

more  awful  after  such  a  period  of  blissful  oblivion  there- 
of :  I  was,  I  had  been,  I  am  now,  as  I  write,  the  man  so 
mysterious  in  crime,  so  unlike  all  other  men  in  his  pun- 
ishment, known  by  various  names  in  various  lands — 
here  in  England  as  the  Wandering  Jew.  Ahasuerus 
was  himself  again,  alas  I — himself  and  no  other.  Wife, 
daughter,  brother  vanished,  and  returned  only  in 
dreams.  I  was  and  remain  the  wandarer,  the  undying, 
the  repentant,  the  unforgiven.  O  heart  I  O  weary 
feet !  O  eyes  that  have  seen  and  nevermore  shall  see, 
until  they  see  once  and  are  blinded  forever  !  Back  upon 
my  soul  rushes  the  memory  of  my  deed  like  a  storm  of 
hail  mingled  with  fire,  flashing  through  every  old  dry 
channel,  that  it  throbs  and  writhes  anew,  scorched  at 
once  and  torn  with  the  poisonous  burning. 


CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 

THE    WANDERING    JEW. 

T  was  a  fair  summer  morning  in  holy  Jeruscn 
lem,  and  I  sat  and  wrought  at  my  trade — foi 
r  sewed  a  pair  of  sandals  for  the  feet  of  thq 
high-priest  Caiaphas.  And  I  wrought  dili- 
gently, for  it  behooved  me  to  cease  an  hour  ere  set  of 
sun  ;  for  it  was  the  day  of  preparation  for  the  eating  of 
the  Passover. 

"  *  Now  all  that  night  there  had  been  a  going  to  and 
fro  in  the  city,  for  the  chief  priests  and  their  followers, 
had  at  length  laid  hands  upon  him  that  was  called  Jesus, 
whom  some  believed  to  be  the  Messiah,  and  others,  with' 
my  fool-self  amongst  them,  an  arch  impostor  and  blas- 
phemer. For  I  was  of  the  house  of  Caiaphas,  and 
heartily  did  he  desire  that  the  man  my  lord  declared  a 
deceiver  of  the  people  should  meet  with  the  just  re- 
ward of  his  doings.  Thus  I  sat  and  worked,  and 
thought  and  rejoiced  ;  and  the  morning  passed,  and  the 
noon  came. 

" '  It  was   a  day   of   sultry   summer,  and   the   street 


THE   WANDERING   JEW.  505 

burned  beneath  the  sun,  and  I  sat  in  the  shadow  and 
looked  out  upon  the  glare,  and  ever  I  wrought  at  the 
sandals  of  my  lord  with  many  fine  stitches,  in  cunning 
workmanship.     All  had  been  for  some  time  very  still, 
when  suddert-ly  I  thought  I  heard  a  far-off  tumult.     And 
soon  came  the  idle  children,  who  ever  run  first  that 
they   be   not   swallowed   up   of  the   crowd  ;    and  they 
ran,    and     looked    behind    as    they    ran.       And    after 
them    came    the    crowd,    crying     and     shouting,    and 
swaying    hither    and    thither ;    and    in    the    midst    of 
it  arose  the  one  arm  of  a  cross,  beneath  the  weight 
of    which  that   same    Jesus   bent    so   low   that   I  saw 
him  not.      Truly,   said  I,    he  hath   not   seldom   borne 
heavier  burdens  in  the  workshop  of  his  father  the  Gali- 
lean, but  now  his  sins  and  his  idleness  have  found   him, 
and  taken  from  him  his  vigor  ;  for  he  that  despiseth  the 
law  shall  perish,  while  they  that  wait  upon  the  Lord 
shall  renew  their  strength.     For  I  was  wroth  with  the 
man  who  taught  the  people  to  despise  the  great  ones 
that  administered  the  law,  and  give  honor  to  the  small 
ones  who  only  kept  it.    Besides,  he  had  driven  my  father's 
brother  from  the  court  of  the  Gentiles  with  a  whip, 
which  truly  hurt  him  not  outwardly,  but  stung  him  to 
the  soul ;  and  yet  that  very  temple  which  he  pretended 
thus  to  honor,  he  had  threatened  to  destroy  and  build 
again  in  three  days  !     Such  were  the  thoughts   of  my 
heart ;  and  when  I  learned  from  the  boys  that  it  was  in 
truth  Jesus  of  Nazareth  who  passed  on  his  way  to  Cal- 
vary to  be  crucified,  my  heart  leaped  within  me  at  the 
thought  that  the  law  had  at  length  overtaken  the  male- 


5o6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


factor.  I  laid  down  the  sandal  and  my  awl,  and  rose  ^jid 
went  forth  and  stood  in  the  front  of  my  shop.  And  Jesus 
drew  nigh,  and  as  he  passed,  lo  !  the  end  of  the  cross 
dragged  upon  the  street.  And  one  in  the  crowd  came 
behind  and  lifted  it  up  and  pushed  therewith,  so  that 
Jesus  staggered  and  had  nigh  fallen.  Then  would  he 
fain  have  rested  the  arm  of  the  cross  on  the  stone  by 
which  I  was  wont  to  go  up  into  my  shop  from  the  street. 
But  I  cried  out  and  drove  him  thence,  saying  scornfully, 
Go  on,  Jesus  ;  go  on.  Truly  thou  restest  not  on  stone  of 
mine!  Then  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  me,  and  said,  / 
go  indeed,  but  thou  goest  7iot,  and  therewith  he  rose  again 
under  the  weight  of  the  cross,  and  staggered  on. 

"  '  And  I  followed  in  the  crowd  to  Calvary.'  " 

Here  the  reader  paused,  and  said, 

"  I  can  give  you  but  a  few  passages  now.  You  see  it  is 
a  large  manuscript.  I  will  therefore  choose  some  of 
those  that  bear  upon  the  subject  of  which  we  have  been 
talking.  A  detailed  account  of  the  crucifixion  follows 
here,  which  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  read  aloud.  The 
eclipse  is  in  it,  and  the  earthquake,  and  the  white  faces 
of  the  risen  dead  gleaming  through  the  darkness  about 
the  cross.     It  ends  thus  : 

"'And  all  the  time,  I  stood  not  far  from  the  foot  of 
the  cross,  nor  dared  go  nearer  ;  for  around  it  were  his 
mother  and  they  that  were  with  her,  and  my  heart  was 
sore  for  her  also.  And  I  would  have  withdrawn  my  foot 
from  the  place  where  I  stood,  and  gone  home  to  weep, 
but  something,  I  know  not  what,  held  me  there,  as  it 
were,  rooted  to  the  ground.    At  length  the  end  was 


THE   WANDERING   JEW.  CO/ 


drawing  near.  He  opened  his  mouth  and  spake  to  his 
mother  and  the  disciple  who  stood  by  her,  but  truly  I 
know  net  what  he  said  ;  for  as  his  eyes  turned  from  them, 
they  looked  upon  me,  and  my  heart  died  within  me.  He 
said  naught,  but  his  eyes  had  that  in  them  that  would 
have  slain  me  with  sorrow  had  not  death,  although  I 
knew  it  not,  already  shrunk  from  my  presence,  daring 
no  more  come  nigh  such  a  malefactor. — O  Death,  how 
gladly  would  I  build  thee  a  temple,  set  thee  in  a  lofty 
place,  and  worship  thee  with  the  sacrifice  of  vultures  on 
a  fire  of  dead  men's  bones,  wouldstthou  but  hear  my  cry  ! 
— But  I  rave  again  in  my  folly.  God  forgive  me.  All 
the  days  of  my  appointed  time  will  I  wait  until  my 
change  come. — With  that  look — a  well  of  everlast- 
ing tears  in  my  throbbing  brain — my  feet  were  unroot- 
ed, and  I  turned  and  fled. 

Here  the  reader  paused  again,  and  turned  over  many 
leaves. 

.  .  And  ever  as  I  passed  at  night  through 
the  lands,  when  I  came  to  a  cross  by  the  wayside, 
thereon  would  1  climb,  and,  winding  my  arms  about 
its  arms  and  my  feet  about  its  stem,  would  there 
hang  in  the  darkness  or  the  moon,  in  rain  or  hail,  in 
wind  or  snow  or  frost,  until  my  sinews  gave  way  and  my 
body  dropped,  and  I  knew  no  more  until  I  found  myself 
lying  at  its  foot  in  the  morning.  For,  ever  in  such  case, 
I  lay  without  sense  until  again  the  sun  shone  upon  me. 

*• '      .     .     And    if   ever   the    memory    of    that    look 
passed   from   me,   then    straightway   I    began   to   long 


5.o8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

for  death,  and  so  longed  until  the  memory  and  the 
power  of  the  look  came  again,  and  with  the  sorrow 
in  my  soul  came  the  patience  to  live.  And  truly, 
i  although  I  speak  of  forgetting  and  remembering,  such 
motions  of  my  spirit  in  me  were  not  as  those  of  another 
man  ;  in  me  they  are  not  measured  by  the  scale  of  men's 
lives  :  they  are  not  of  years,  but  of  centuries  ;  for  the 
seconds  of  my  life  are  ticked  by  a  clock  whose  pendulum 
swings  through  an  arc  of  motionless  stars. 

"'  .  .  Once  I  had  a  vision  of  Death.  Methinks  it 
must  have  been  a  procursive  vapor  of  the  madness  that 
afterwards  enfolded  me,  for  I  know  well  that  there  is  not 
one  called  Death,  that  he  is  but  a  word  needful  for 
the  weakness  of  human  thought  and  the  poverty  of 
human  speech  ;  that  he  is  a  no-being,  and  but  a  change 
from  that  which  is.     I  had  a  vision  of  Death,  I  say. 

"  '  I  was  walking  over  a  wide  plain  of  sand,  like 
Egypt,  so  that  ever  and  anon  I  looked  around  me  to  see 
if  nowhere,  from  the  base  of  the  horizon,  the  pyramids 
cut  their  triangle  out  of  the  blue  night  of  heaven  ;  but  I 
saw  none.  The  stars  came  down  and  sparkled  on  the 
dry  sands,  and  all  was  waste  and  wide  desolation.  The 
air  also  was  still  as  the  air  of  a  walled-up  tomb,  where 
i  there  are  but  dry  bones,  and  not  even  the  wind  of  an 
evil  vapor  that  rises  from  decay.  And  through  the  dead 
air  came  ever  the  low  moaning  of  a  distant  sea,  towards 
which  my  feet  did  bear  me.  I  had  been  journeying  thus 
for  years,  and  in  their  lapse  it  had  grown  but  a  little 
louder.     Suddenly  I  was  aware  that  I  was  not  alone.     A 


THE   WANDERING  JEW.  509 

dim  figure  strode  beside  me,  vague,  but  certain  of  pres- 
ence. And  I  feared  him  not,  seeing  that  which  men 
fear  the  most  was  itself  that  which  by  me  was  the  most 
desired.  So  I  stood  and  turned  and  would  have  spoken. 
But  the  shade  that  seemed  not  a  shadow  went  on  and  re- 
garded me  not.  Then  I  also  turned  again  towards  the 
moaning  of  the  sea  and  went  on.  And  lo  !  the  shade 
which  had  gone  before  until  it  seemed  but  as  a  vapor 
among  the  stars,  was  again  by  my  side  walking.  And  I 
said,  and  stood  not,  but  walked  on  :  "  Thou  shade  that  art 
not  a  shadow,  seeing  there  shineth  no  sun  or  moon,  and 
the  stars  are  many,  and  the  one  slayeth  the  shadow  of  the 
other,  what  art  thou,  and  wherefore  goest  thou  by  my 
side  ?  Think  not  to  make  me  afraid,  for  I  fear  nothing 
in  the  universe  but  that  which  I  love  the  best."  (I  spake 
of  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  Jesus.)  Then  the  shade  that 
seemed  no  shadow  answered  me,  and  spake  and  said,"  Lit- 
tle knowest  thou  what  I  am,  seeing  the  very  thing  thou 
sa3'est  I  am  not,  that  I  am,  and  naught  else,  and  there 
is  no  other  but  me.  I  am  Shadow,  the  shadow,  the 
only  shadow — none  such  as  those  from  which  the  light 
hideth  in  terror,  yet  like  them,  for  life  hideth  from  me 
and  turneth  away  ;  yet  if  life  were  not,  neither  were  I,  for 
I  am  nothing  ;  and  yet  again,  so  soon  as  any  thing  is, 
there  am  I,  and  needed  no  maker,  but  came  of  myself, 
for  I  am  Death."  "  Ha  I  Death!"  I  cried,  and  would  have 
cast  myself  before  him  with  outstretched  arms  of  wor- 
shipful entreaty  ;  but  lo  !  there  was  a  shadow  upon  the 
belt  of  Orion,  and  no  shadow  by  my  side  !  and  I  sighed, 
and  walked  on  towards   the   ever-moaning  sea.     Then 


5IO  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


again  the  shadow  was  by  my  side.  And  again  I  spake  and 
said,  "Thou  thing  of  flitting  and  return,  I  despise  thee, 
for  thou  wilt  not  abide  the  conflict."  And  I  would  have 
cast  myself  upon  him  and  wrestled  with  him  there,  for  de- 
feat and  not  for  victory.  But  I  could  not  lay  hold  upon 
him.  "Thou  art  a  powerless  nothing,"  I  cried;  "I  will 
not  even  defy  thee."  "  Thou  wouldst  provoke  me,"  said 
the  shadow,  "  but  it  availeth  net.  I  can  not  be  provoked. 
Truly  I  am  but  a  shadow,  yet  know  I  my  own  worth,  for 
I  am  the  Shadow  of  the  Almighty,  and  where  he  is,  there 
am  I."  "  Thou  art  nothing,"  I  said.  "  Nay,  nay,  I  am  not 
Nothing.  Thou,  nor  any  man — God  only  knoweth  what 
that  word  meaneth.  1  am  but  the  shadow  of  Nothing, 
and  when  thou  sayest  nothing,  thou  meanest  only  me  ;  but 
what  God  meaneth  when  he  sayeth  Nothing — the  nothing 
without  him,  that  nothing  which  is  no  shadow  but  the 
very  substance  of  Unbeing — no  created  soul  can  know," 
"  Then  art  thou  not  Death  ?"  I  asked.  "  I  am  what  thou 
thinkestof  when  thou  sayest  Z>m//^,"  he  answered,  "  but  I 
am  not  Death."  "Alas!  then,  why  comest  thou  to  me 
in  the  desert  places,  for  I  did  think  thou  wast  Death 
indeed,  and  couldst  take  me  unto  thee  so  that  I  should 
be  no  more."  "That  is  what  death  can  not  do  for  thee," 
said  the  shadow ;  "  none  but  he  that  created  thee  can 
cause  that  thou  shouldst  be  no  more.  Thou  art  until  he 
will  that  thou  be  not.  I  have  heard  it  said  amongst  the 
wise  that,  hard  as  it  is  to  create,  it  is  harder  still  to  un- 
create.  Truly  I  can  not  tell.  But  wouldst  thou  be  un- 
created by  the  hand  of  Death  }  Wouldst  thou  have  thy 
no-being  the  gift  of  a  shadow  ?"     Then  I  thought  of  the 


THE   WANDERING   JEW.  5II 

eyes  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  and  the  look  he  cast  upon  me. 
and  I  said,  "  No  :  I  would  not  be  carried  away  of  Deatn» 
I  would  be  fulfilled  of  Life,  and  stand  before  God  for- 
ever." Then  once  again  the  belt  of  Orion  grew  dim,  and 
I  saw  the  shadow  no  more.  And  yet  did  I  long  for 
Death,  for  I  thought  he  might  bring  me  to  those  eyes, 
and  the  pardon  that  lay  in  them. 

****** 
"  '  But  again,  as  the  years  went  on  and  each  brought 
less  hope  than  that  before  it,  I  forgot  the  look  the  Lord 
had  cast  upon  me,  and  in  the  weariness  of  the  life  that  was 
mortal  and  yet  would  not  cease,  in  the  longing  after  the 
natural  end  of  that  which  against  nature  endured,  I  be- 
gan to  long  even  for  the  end  of  being  itself.     And  in  a 
city  of  the  Germans  I  found  certain  men  of  my  own  na- 
tion who  said  unto  me,  "  Fear  not,  Ahasuerus  ;  there  is 
no  life  beyond  the  grave.     Live  on   until  thy  end  come, 
and  cease  thy  complaints.     Who  is  there  among  us  who 
would  not  gladly  take  upon  him  thy  judgment,  and  live 
until  he  was  weary  of  living  ?"     "  Yea,  but  to  live  after 
thou  art  weary  ?"  I  said.     But  they  heeded  me  not,  an- 
swering me  and  saying,  "Search  thou   the   Scriptures, 
even  the  Book  of  the  Law,  and  see  if  thou  find  there 
one  leaf  of  this  gourd  of  a  faith  that  hath  sprung  up  in 
a  night.     Verily,  this   immortality  is  but  a  flash  in  the 
J  brain  of  men  that  would  rise  above  their  fate.     Sayeth 
Moses,  or  sayeth  Job,  or  sayeth  David  or  Daniel  a  word 
of  the  matter  ?"    And  I  listened  unto  them,  and  became 
of  their  mind.     But  therewithal  the  longing  after  death 
returned  with  tenfold  force,  and  I  rose  up  and  girt  my 


512  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

garment  about  me,  and  went  forth  once  more  to  search 
for  him  whom  I  now  took  for  the  porter  of  the  gate  of 
eternal  silence  and  unfelt  repose.  And  I  said  unto  my- 
self as  I  walked,  What  in  the  old  days  was  sweeter, 
when  1  was  weary  with  my  labor  of  making  of  shoes,  than 
to  find  myself  dropping  into  the  death  of  sleep  !  how 
much  sweeter  then  must  it  not  be  to  sink  into  the  sleep- 
iest of  sleeps,  the  father-sleep,  the  mother-bosomed 
death  of  nothingness  and  unawaking  rest  !  Then  shall 
all  this  endless  whir  of  the  wheels  of  thought  a-id  desire 
be  over  ;  then  welcome  the  night  whose  da'Rness  does 
not  seethe,  and  which  no  morning  shall  ever  stir  ! 

"  *  And  wherever  armies  were  drawing  nigh,  each  to 
the  other,  and  the  day  of  battle  was  near,  thither  I  flew 
in  hot  haste,  that  I  might  be  first  upon  the  field,  and 
ready  to  welcome  hottest  peril.  I  fought  not,  for  I 
would  not  slay  those  that  counted  it  not  the  good 
thing  to  be  slain,  as  I  counted  it.  But  had  the  armies 
been  of  men  that  loved  death  like  me,  how  had  I  raged 
among  them  then,  even  as  the  angel  Azrael,  to  give 
them  their  sore-desired  rest !  for  I  loved  and  hated  not 
my  kind,  and  would  diligently  have  mown  them  down 
out  of  the  stinging  air  of  life  into  the  soft  balm  of  the 
sepulchre.  But  what  they  sought  not,  and  I  therefore 
would  not  give,  that  searched  I  after  the  more  eagerly  for 
myself.  And  my  sight  grew  so  keen  that,  when  yet  no 
bigger  than  a  mote  in  the  sunbeam,  I  could  always  de- 
scry ',he  vulture-scout  hanging  aloft  over  the  field  of 


THE   WANDERING   JEW.  513 

destiny.     Then  would  I  hasten  on  and  on,  until  a  swoop 
would  have  brought  him  straight  on  my  head. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

'  "  And  with  that  a  troop  of  horsemen,  horses  and  men 
mad  with  living  fear,  came  with  a  level  rush  towards 
the  spot  where  I  sat,  faint  with  woe.  And  I  sprang  up 
and  bounded  to  meet  them,  throwing  my  arms  aloft 
and  shouting  as  one  who  would  turn  a  herd.  And  like 
a  wave  of  the  rising  tide  before  a  swift  wind,  a  wave  that 
sweeps  on  and  breaks  not,  they  came  hard-buffeting  over 
my  head.  Ah  !  that  was  a  torrent  indeed  !— a  thunder- 
ous succession  of  solid  billows,  alive,  hurled  along  by  the 
hurricane-lear  in  the  heart  of  them  !  For  one  moment 
only  I  felt  and  knew  what  1  lay  beneath,  and  then  for  a 
time  there  was  nothing.  I  woke  in  silence,  and 
thought  I  was  dying  ;  that  I  had  all  but  passed  across  the 
invisible -line  between,  and  in  a  moment  there  would  be 
forevermore  nothing  and  nothing.  Then  followed 
again  an  empty  space,  as  it  seemed.  "And  now  I  am 
dead  and  gone,"  I  said,  "  and  shall  wander  no  more^"  And 
with  that  came  the  agony  of  hell,  for,  lo  !  still  I  thought ! 
And  I  said  to  myself,  "Alas  !  O  God  !  for  notwithstand- 
ing I  no  more  see  or  hear  or  taste  or  smell  or  touch, 
and  my  body  hath  dropped  from  me,  still  am  I  Ahasu- 
erus,  the  Wanderer,  and  must  go  on  and  on  and  on,  blind 
and  deaf,  through  the  unutterable  wastes  that  know  not 
the  senses  of  man — nevermore  to  find  rest  !  Alas  ! 
Death  is  not  death,  seeing  he  slayeth  but  the  leathern 
bottle,  and  spilleth  not  the  wine  of  life  upon  the  earth, 
Alas  !  alas  !  for  I^can  not  die  !"     And  with  that  a  finger 


SH  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

twitched,  and  I  shouted  aloud  for  joy:  I  was  yet  in  the 
body  !  And  I  sprang  to  my  feet  jubilant,  and,  lame  and 
bruised  and  broken-armed,  tottered  away  after  Deatl\ 
who  yet  might  hold  the  secret  of  eternal  repose.  I  was 
alive,  but  yet  there  was  hope,  for  Death  was  yet  before 
me  !  I  was  alive,  but  I  had  not  died,  and  who  could  tell 
but  I  might  yet  find  the  lovely  night  that  hath  neither 
clouds  nor  stars  !  I  had  not  passed  into  the  land  of  the 
dead  and  found  myself  yet  living  !  The  wise  men  of  my 
nation  in  the  city  of  the  Almains  might  yet  be  wise  ! 
And  for  an  hour  I  rejoiced,  and  was  glad  greatly. 


CHAPTER   LXXIX. 


THEWANDERINGJEW. 

T  was  midnight,  and  sultry  as  hell.  All  day 
not  a  breath  had  stirred.  The  country 
through  which  I  passed  was  level  as  the 
sea  that  had  once  flowed  above  it.  My  heart 
had  almost  ceased  to  beat,  and  I  was  weary  as  the 
man  who  is  too  weary  to  sleep  outright,  and  labors  in 
his  dreams.  I  slumbered  and  yet  walked  on.  My  blood 
flowed  scarce  faster  than  the  sluggish  water  in  the  many 
canals  I  crossed  on  my  weary  way.  And  ever  I  thought 
to  meet  the  shadow  that  was  and  was  not  death.  But 
this  was  no  dream.  Just  on  the  stroke  of  midnight, 
I  came  to  the  gate  of  a  large  city,  and  the  watchers  let 
me  pass.  Through  many  an  ancient  and  lofty  street  I 
wandered  like  a  ghost  in  a  dream,  knowing  no  one,  and 
caring  not  for  myself,  and  at  length  reached  an  open 
space  where  stood  a  great  church,  the  cross  upon  whose 
spire  seemed  bejewelled  with  the  stars  among  which  it 
dNvelt.  And  in  my  soul  I  said,  O  Lord  Jesus  !  and  went 
up  to  the  base  of  the  tower,  and  found  the  door  thereof 
open  to  my  baud.    Then  with  my  staff  I  ascended  the 


5l6  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

winding  stairs,  until  I  reached  the  open  sky.  And  the 
stairs  went  still  winding,  on  and  on,  up  towards  the 
stars.  And  with  my  staff  I  ascended,  and  arose  into  the 
sky,  unti'l  I  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  of  stone. 

"  '  Ay  me  !  how  the  centuries  without  haste,  without 
rest,  had  glided  along  since  I  stood  by  the  cross  of  dis- 
honor and  pain  !  And  God  had  not  grown  weary  of  his 
life  yet,  but  I  had  grown  so  weary  in  my  very  bones 
that  weariness  was  my  element,  and  I  had  ceased  almost 
to  note  it.  And  now,  high  uplifted  in  honor  and  wor- 
ship over  every  populous  city,  stood  the  cross  among  the 
stars  !  I  scrambled  up  the  pinnacles,  and  up  on  the 
carven  stem  of  the  cross,  for  my  sinews  were  as  steel, 
and  my  muscles  had  dried  and  hardened  until  they  were 
as  those  of  the  tiger  or  the  great  serpent.  So  1  climbed  and 
lifted  up  myself  until  I  reached  the  great  arms  of  the  cross 
and  over  them  flung  my  arms,  as  was  my  wont,  and  en- 
twined the  stem  with  my  legs,  and  there  hung  three 
hundred  feet  above  the  roofs  of  the  houses.  And  as  I 
hung  the  moon  rose  and  cast  the  shadow  of  me  Ahasue- 
rus  upon  the  cross,  up  against  the  Pleiades.  And  as  if 
dull  Nature  were  offended  thereat,  nor  understood  the 
offering  of  my  poor  sacrifice,  the  clouds  began  to  gathr 
er,  like  the  vultures — no  one  could  have  told  whence. 
From  all  sides  around  they  rose,  and  the  moon  was 
blotted  out,  and  they  gathered  and  rose  until  they  met 
right  over  the  cross.  And  when  they  closed,  then  the 
lightning  brake  forth,  and  the  thunder  with  it,  and  it 
flashed  and  thundered  above  and  around  and  beneath  me, 
so  that  I  could  not  tell  which  voice  belonged  to  which 


THE   WANDERING   JEW.  517 

arrow,  for  all  were  mingled  in  one  great  confusion  and 
uproar.  And  the  people  in  the  houses  below  heard  the 
sound  of  the  thunder,  and  they  looked  from  their  win- 
dows and  they  saw  the  storm  ravnng  and  flashing  about 
the  spire,  which  stood  the  heart  of  the  agony,  and  they 
saw  something  hang  there,  even  upon  its  cross,  in  the 
form  of  a  man,  and  they  came  from  their  houses,  and  the 
whole  space  beneath  was  filled  with  people,  who  stood 
gazing  up  at  the  marvel.  A  miracle!  A  miracle !  Xh^y 
cried  ;  and  truly  it  was  no  miracle — it  was  only  me  Ahas- 
uerus,  the  wanderer,  taking  thought  concerning  his  crime 
against  the  crucified.  Then  came  a  great  light  all  about 
me,  such  light  for  shining  as  I  had  never  before  beheld, 
and  indeed  I  saw  it  not  all  with  my  eyes,  but  the  greater 
jxirt  with  my  soul,  which  surely  is  the  light  of  the  eyes 
themselves.  And  I  said  to  myself.  Doubtless  the  Lord 
is  at  hand,  and  he  cometh  to  me  as  late  to  the  blessed 
Saul  of  Tarsus,  who  was  not  the  chief  of  sinners,  but  I — 
Ahasuerus,  the  accursed.  And  the  thunder  burst  like 
the  biirsting  of  a  world  in  the  furnace  of  the  sun  ;  and 
whether  it  was  that  the  lightning  struck  me,  or  that  I 
dropped,  as  was  my  custom,  outwearied  from  the  cross, 
I  know  not,  but  thereafter  I  lay  at  its  foot  among  the 
pinnacles,  and  when  the  people  looked  again  the  mira- 
cle was  over,  and  they  returned  to  their  houses  and 
slept.  And  the  next  day,  when  I  sought  the  comfort  of 
the  bath,  I  found  upon  my  side  the  figure  of  a  cross,  and 
the  form  of  a  man  hanging  thereupon  as  I  had  hung,  de- 
painted  in  a  dark  color  as  of  lead,  plain  upon  the  flesh 
of  my  side  over  my  heart.     Here  was  a  miracle  indeed  ! 


51 8  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

but  verily  I  knew  not  whether  therefrom  to  gather  com- 
fort or  despair. 

"  '  And  it  was  night  as  I  went  into  a  village  among 
the  mountains,  through  the  desert  places  of  which  I  had 
all  that  day  been  wandering.  And  never  before  had  my 
condition  seemed  to  me  so  hopeless.  There  was  not 
one  left  upon  the  earth  who  had  ever  seen  me  knowing 
me,  and  although  there  went  a  tale  of  such  a  man  as  I, 
yet  faith  had  so  far  vanished  from  the  earth,  that  for  a 
thing  to  be  marvellous,  however  just,  was  sufficient  rea- 
son wherefor  no  man,  to  be  counted  wise,  should  be- 
lieve the  same.  For  the  last  fifty  years  I  had  found  not 
one  that  would  receive  my  testimony.  For  when  I  told 
them  the  truth  concerning  myself,  saying  as  I  now  say, 
and  knowing  the  thing  for  true — that  I  was  Ahasuerus, 
whom  the  Word  had  banished  from  his  home  in  the  re- 
gions governed  of  Death,  shutting  against  him  the  door 
of  the  tomb  tha't  he  should  not  go  in — every  man  said  I 
was  mad,  and  would  hold  with  me  no  manner  of  com- 
munication, more  than  if  T  had  been  possessed  with  a 
legion  of  swine-loving  demons.  Therefore  was  I  cold 
at  heart,  and  lonely  to  the  very  root  of  my  being.  And 
thus  it  was  with  me  that  midnight  as  I  entered  the  vil- 
lage among  the  mountains. — Now  all  therein  slept,  so 
even  that  not  a  dog  barked  at  sound  of  my  footsteps. 
But  suddenly,  and  my  soul  yet  quivers  with  dismay  at 
the  remembrance,  a  yell  of  horror  tore  its  way  from  the 
throat  of  every  sleeper  at  once,  and  shot  into  every 
cranny  of  the  many-folded    mountains,  that   my   soul 


THE   WANDERING   JEW.  519 

knocked  shaking  against  the  sides  of  my  body, 
and  I  also  shrieked  aloud  with  the  keen  terror  of  the 
cry.  For  surely  there  was  no  sleeper  there,  man,  wo- 
man, or  child,  who  yelled  not  aloud  in  an  agony  of  fear. 
And  1  knew  that  it  could  only  be  because  of  the  unseen 
presence  in  their  street  of  the  outcast,  the  homeless, 
the  loveless,  the  wanderer  forever,  who  had  refused  a 
stone  to  his  maker  whereon  to  rest  his  cross.  Truly  I 
know  not  whence  else  could  have  come  that  cry.  And 
I  looked  to  see  that  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  village 
should  rush  out  upon  me,  and  go  forth  to  slay  the  unslay- 
able  in  their  agony.  But  the  cry  passed,  and  after  the 
cry  came  again  the  stillness.  And  for  very  dread 
lest  yet  another  such  cry  should  enter  my  ears,  and 
turn  my  heart  to  a  jelly,  I  did  hasten  my  steps  to  leave 
the  dwellings  of  the  children  of  the  world,  and  pass  out 
upon  the  pathless  hills  again.  But  as  I  turned  and 
would  have  departed,  the  door  of  a  house  opened  over 
against  where  I  stood  ;  and  as  it  opened,  lo  I  a  sharp  gust 
of  wind  from  the  mountains  swept  along  the  street,  and 
out  into  the  wind  came  running  a  girl,  clothed  only  in 
the  garment  of  the  night.  And  the  wind  blew  upon  her, 
and  by  the  light  of  the  moon  I  saw  that  her  hands  and 
her  feet  were  rough  and  brown,  as  of  one  that  knew 
labor  and  hardship,  but  her  body  was  dainty  and  fair, 
and  moulded  in  loveliness.  Her  hair  blew  around  her 
like  a  rain  cloud,  so  that  it  almost  blinded  her,  and  truly 
she  had  much  ado  to  clear  it  from  her  face,  as  a  half 
drowned  man  would  clear  from  his  face  the  waters 
whence  he  hath  been  lifted  ;  and  like  two  stars  of  light 


520  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

from  amidst  the  cloud  gazed  forth  the  eyes  of  the  girl. 
And  she  looked  upon  me  with  the  courage  of  a  child,  and 
she  said  unto  me,  Stranger,  knowest  thou  wherefore 
was  that  cry  ?  Was  it  thou  who  did  so  cry  in  our  street  in 
the  night?  And  1  answered  her  and  said,  Verily  not  I. 
maiden,  but  I  too  heard  the  cry,  and  it  shook  my  soul 
within  me. — What  seemed  it  unto  thee  like,  she  asked,  for 
truly  I  slept,  and  know  only  the  terror  thereof  and  not 
the  sound?  And  I  said.  It  seemed  unto  me  that  every 
soul  in  the  village  cried  out  at  once  in  some  dream  of 
horror  — I  cried  not  out,  she  said  ;  for  I  slept  and  dream- 
ed, and  the  dream  was  such  that  I  know  verily  I  cried 
not  out.  And  the  maiden  was  lovely  in  her  innocence. 
And  I  said  :  And  was  thy  dream  such,  maiden,  that  thou 
wouldst  not  refuse  but  wouldst  tell  it  to  an  old  man  like 
me  ?  And  with  that  the  wind  came  down  from  the  moun- 
tain like  a  torrent  of  wolves,  and  it  laid  hold  upon  me  and 
swept  me  from  the  village,  and  I  fled  before  it,  and 
could  not  stay  my  steps  until  I  got  me  into  the  covert 
of  a  hollow  rock.  And  scarce  had  I  turned  in  thither 
when,  lo  !  thither  came  the  maiden  also,  flying  in  my 
footsteps,  and  driven  of  the  self-same  mighty  wind. 
And  I  turned  in  pity  and  said,  Fear  not,  my  child.  Here 
is  but  an  old  man  with  a  sore  and  withered  heart,  and  he 
will  not  harm  thee, — I  fear  thee  not,  she  answered,  else 
would  I  not  have  followed  thee. — Thou  didst  not  follow 
me  of  thine  own  inclining,  I  said,  but  the  wind  that 
came  from  the  mountains  and  swept  me  before  it.  did 
bear  thee  after  me. — Truly  I  know  of  no  wind,  she  said, 
but  the  wind  of  my.own  following  of  thee.     Wherefore 


THE   WANDERING  JEW.  52 1 

didst  thou  flee  from  me? — Nay!  but  wherefore  didst 
thou  follow  me,  maiden  ? — That  I  might  tell  thee  my 
dream,  to  the  which  thou  didst  desire  to  hearken.  For 
lo  !  as  I  slept  I  dreamed  that  a  man  came  unto  me  and 
said.  Behold  I  I  am  the  unresting  and  undying  one,  and 
my  burden  is  greater  than  I  can  bear,  for  Death  who  be- 
friendeth  all  is  my  enemy,  and  will  not  look  upon  me  in 
peace.  And  with  that  came  the  cry,  and  I  awoke  and  ran 
out  to  see  whence  came  the  cry,  and  found  thee  alone 
in  the  street.  And  as  God  Hveth,  such  as  was  the  man 
in  my  dream,  such  art  thou  in  my  waking  sight. — Not  the 
less  must  I  ask  thee  again,  I  said,  wherefore  didst  thou 
follow  me  } — That  I  niay  comfort  thee,  she  answered. 
And  how  thinkest  thou  to  comfort  one  whom  God 
hath  forsaken  .^— That  cannot  be,  she  said,  seeing  that 
in  a  vision  of  the  night  he  sent  thee  unto  me,  and  so 
now  hath  sent  me  unto  thee.  Therefore  will  I  go 
with  thee,  and  minister  unto  thee. — Bethink  thee  well 
what  thou  doest,  I  said  ;  and  before  thou  art  fully  re- 
solved, sit  thee  down  b}^  me  in  this  cave,  that  I  may  tell 
thee  my  tale.  And  straightway  she  sat  down,  and  I. 
told  her  all.  And  ere  I  had  finished  the  sun  had  risen. 
— Then  art  thou  now  alone,  said  the  maiden,  and  hast 
no  one  to  love  thee  ? — No  one,  I  answered,  man,  wo- 
man, or  child. — Then  will  I  go  with  thee,  for  I  know 
neither  father  nor  mother,  and  no  one  hath  power  over 
me,  for  I  keep  goats  on  the  mountains  for  wages,  and  if 
thou  wilt  but  give  me  bread  to  eat  I  will  serve  thee. 
And  a  great  love  arose  in  my  heart  to  the  maiden.  And 
I  left  her  in  the  cave,  and  went  to  the   nearest  city,  and 


522  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

returned  thence  with  garments  and  victuals.  And  I 
loved  the  maiden  greatly.  And  although  my  age  was 
then  marvellous,  being  over  and  above  a  thousand 
and  seven  hundred  years,  yet  found  she  my  person 
neither  pitiful  nor  uncomely,  for  I  was  still  in  body 
even  such  as  when  the  Lord  Jesus  spake  the  word  of  my 
doom.  And  the  damsel  loved  me,  and  was  mine.  And 
she  was  as  the  apple  of  mine  eye.  And  the  world  was 
no  more  unto  me  as  a  desert,  but  it  blossomed  as  the 
rose  of  Sharon.  And  although  I  knew  every  city  upon 
it,  and  every  highway  and  navigable  sea,  yet  did  all  be- 
come to  me  fresh  and  new  because  of  the  joy  which  the 
damsel  had  in  beholding  its  kingdoms  and  the  glories 
thereof.  *  *  * 

*' '  And  it  came  to  pass  that  my  heart  grew  proud 
within  me,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  I  was  all-superior 
to  other  men,  for  Death  could  not  touch  me  ;  that  I  was 
a  marvel  upon  the  face  of  the  world  ;  and  in  this  yet 
more  above  all  men  that  had  ever  lived,  that  at  such  an 
age  as  mine  I  could  yet  gain  the  love,  yea,  the  absolute 
devotion,  of  such  an  one  as  my  wife,  who  never  wearied 
of  my  company  and  conversation.  So  I  took  to  me 
even  the  free  grace  of  love  as  my  merit  unto  pride,  and 
laid  it  not  to  the  great  gift  of  God  and  the  tenderness  of 
\  the  heart  of  my  beloved.  Like  Satan  in  heaven,  I  was 
uplifted  in  the  strength  and  worthiness  and  honor 
of  my  demon-self,  and  my  pride  went  not  forth  in 
thanks,  for  I  gloried  not  in  my  God,  but  in  Ahasuerus. 
Then  the  thought  smote  me  like  an  arrow  of  lightning  : 


THE    WANDERING   JEW.  523 

She  will  die,  a7idthou  shall  live — live — live^and  as  he  hath 
delayed,  so  will  he  yet  delay  his  comifig.  And  as  Satan 
from  the  seventh  heaven,  I  fell  prone.  *  *  * 
Then  my  spirit  began  again  to  revive  within  me,  and  I 
said,  Lo  !  I  have  yet  many  years  of  her  love  ere  she 
dieth,  and  when  she  is  gone,  I  shall  yet  have  the  mem- 
ory of  my  beloved  to  be  with  me  and  cheer  me  and  bear 
me  up,  for  I  may  never  again  despise  that  which  she 
hath  loved  as  she  hath  loved  me.  And  yet  again  a 
thought  smote  me,  and  it  was  as  an  arrow  of  the  light- 
ning, and  its  barb  was  the  truth  :  But  she  will  grow  old,  it 
said,  and  will  wither  before  thy  face,  and  be  as  the  waning 
moon  in  the  heavens.  And  my  heart  cried  out  in  an 
agony.  But  my  will  sought  to  comfort  my  heart,  and  said, 
Cry  not  out,  for  in  spite  of  old  age  as  in  spite  of  death, 
I  will  love  her  still.  Then  something  began  to  writhe 
w^ithin  me,  and  to  hiss  out  words  that  gathered  them- 
selves unto  this  purpose  :  But  she  will  grow  unlovely, 
and  wrinkled,  and  dark  of  hue,  and  the  shape  of  her 
body  will  vanish,  and  her  form  be  unformed,  and  her 
eyes  will  grow  small  and  dim,  and  creep  back  into  her 
head,  and  her  hair  will  fall  from  her,  and  she  shall  be  as 
the  unsightly  figure  of  Death  with  a  skin  drawn  over 
his  unseemly  bones  ;  and  the  damsel  of  thy  love,  with 
the  round  limbs  and  the  flying  hair,  and  the  clear  eyes 
out  of  which  looketh  a  soul  clear  as  they,  will  be  no- 
where— nowhere,  for  evermore,  for  thou  wilt  not  be 
able  to  believe  that  she  it  is  who  standeth  before  thee  : 
how  will  it  be  with  thee  then  ?  And  what  mercy  is  his 
who  hath  sent  thee  a  growing  loss  in  the  company  of 


524  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

this  woman  ?  Thereupon  I  arose  in  the  strength  of  my 
agony  and  went  forth.  And  I  said  nothing  unto  my 
wife,  but  strode  to  the  foot  of  the  great  mountain, 
whose  entrails  were  all  aglow,  and  on  whose  sides  grew 
the  palm  and  the  tree-bread  and  the  nut  of  milk.  And 
I  climbed  the  mountain,  nor  once  looked  behind  me,  but 
climbed  to  the  top.  And  there  for  one  moment  I  stood 
in  the  stock-dullness  of  despair.  And  beneath  me  was 
the  great  fiery  gulf,  outstretched  like  a  red  lake 
skimmed  over  with  black  ice,  through  the  cracks  where- 
in shone  the  blinding  fire.  Every  moment  here  and 
there  a  great  liquid  bubbling  would  break  through  the 
crust,  and  made  a  wallowing  heap  upon  the  flat,  then 
sink  again  leaving  an  open  red  well-pool  of  fire  whence 
the  rays  shot  up  like  flame,  although  flame  there  was 
none.  It  lay  like  the  back  of  some  huge  animal  upheaved 
out  of  hell,  which  was  wounded  and  bled  fire. — Now,  in 
the  last  year  of  my  long  sojourn,  life  had  again,  because 
of  the  woman  that  loved  me,  become  precious  unto  me, 
and  more  than  once  had  I  laughed  as  I  caught  myself 
starting  back  from  some  danger  in  a  crowded  street,  for 
the  thing  was  new  tome,  so  utterly  had  the  care  of  my  life 
fallen  into  disuse  with  me.  But  now  again  in  my  misery 
I  thought  no  more  of  danger,  but  went  stalking  and 
sliding  down  the  cindery  slope  of  the  huge  fire  cup,  and 
out  upon  the  lake  of  molten  earth — molten  as  when 
first  it  shot  from  the  womb  of  the  sun,  of  whose  ardour, 
through  all  the  millions  of  years,  it  had  not  yet  cooled. 
And  as  once  St.  Peter  on  the  stormy  water  to  find  the 
Lord  of  Life,   so  walked  I  on  the  still  lake  of  fire,  car- 


THE   WANDERING  JEW.  525 

ing  neither  for  life  nor  death.  For  my  heart  was  with- 
ered to  the  roots  by  the  thought  of  the  decay  of  her 
whom  I  had  loved  ;  for  would  not  then  her  very  pre- 
sence every  hour  be  causing  me  to  forget  the  beauty 
that  had  once  made  me  glad  .^ — I  had  waliced  some  ten 
furlongs,  and  passed  the  middle  of  the  lake,  when  sud- 
denly I  bethought  me  that  she  would  marvel  whither  I 
had  gone,  and  set  out  to  seek  me,  and  something  might 
befall  her,  and  I  should  lose  my  rose  ere  its  leaves  had 
begun  to  drop.  And  I  turned  and  trode  again  in  haste 
across  the  floor  of  black  heat,  broken  and  seamed  with  red 
light.  And  lo" !  as  I  neared  the  midst  of  the  lake,  a  form 
came  towards  me,  walking  in  the  very  footsteps  I  had 
left  behind  me,  nor  had  I  to  look  again  to  know  the 
gracic)us  motion  of  my  beloved.  And  the  black  ice 
broke  at  her  foot,  and  the  fire  shone  up  on  her  face,  and 
it  was  lovely  as  an  angel  of  God,  and  the  glow  of  her 
love  outshone  the  glow  of  the  nether  fire.  And  I  called 
not  to  stay  her  foot,  for  I  judged  that  the  sooner  she 
was  with  me,  the  sooner  would  she  be  in  safety,  for  I 
knew  how  to  walk  thereon  better  than  she.  And  my 
heart  sang  a  song  within  me  in  praise  of  the  love  of  wo- 
man, but  I  thought  only  of  the  love  of  my  woman  tome, 
whom  the  fires  of  hell  could  not  hold  back  from 
him  who  was  worthy  of  her  love  ;  and  my  heart 
sent  the  song  up  to  my  lips  ;  but,  as  the  first  word 
arose,  sure  itself  a  red  bubble  from  the  pit  of 
glowing  hell,  the  black  crust  burst  up  between  us,  and 
a  great  hillock  of  seething,  slow-spouting,  slow-falling, 
mad  red  fire  arose.     For  a  moment  or  two  the   molten 


526  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

mound  bubbled  and  wallowed,  then  sank— and  I  saw 
not  my  wife.  Headlong  I  plunged  into  the  fiery  pool  at 
my  feet,  and  the  clinging  torture  hurt  me  not,  and  I 
caught  her  in  my  arms,  and  rose  to  the  surface,  and 
crept  forth,  and  shook  the  fire  from  mine  eyes,  and  lo  ! 
1  held  to  my  bosom  but  as  the  fragment  of  a  cinder  of 
the  furnace.  And  I  laughed  aloud  in  my  madness,  and 
the  devils  below  heard  me,  and  laughed  yet  again.  O 
Age  !  O  Decay  !  I  cried,  see  liow  I  triumph  over  thee  : 
what  canst  thou  do  to  this  ?  And  I  flung  the  cinder  from 
me  int^LUie  pool,  and  plunged  again  into  the  grinning 
fire.  But  it  cast  me  out  seven  times,  and  the  seventh 
time  I  turned  from  it,  and  rushed  out  of  the  valley  of 
burning,  and  threw  myself  on  the  mountain-side  in  the 
moonlight,  and  awoke  mad. 

"  '  And  what  I  had  then  said  in  despair,  I  said  yet  again 
in  thankfulness.  O  Age  !  O  Decay  !  I  cried,  what  canst 
thou  now  do  to  destroy  the  image  of  her  which  I  bear 
nested  in  my  heart  of  hearts .''  That  at  least  is  safe,  I 
thank  God.  And  from  that  hour  I  nevermore  believed 
that  I  should  die  when  at  length  my  body  dropped  from 
me.  If  the  thought  came,  it  came  as  a  fear,  and  not  as 
a  thing  concerning  which  a  man  may  say  I  would  ox  I 
would  not.  For  a  mighty  hope  had  risen  within  me,  that 
yet  I  should  stand  forgiven  in  the  eyes  of  him  that  was 
crucified,  and  that  in  token  of  his  forgiveness,  he  would 
grant  me  to  look  again,  but  in  peace,  upon  the  face  of  her 
that  had  loved  me.  O  mighty  Love,  who  can  tell  to  what 
heights  of  perfection  tnou  maytest  yet  rise  in  the  bosom 
of  the  meanest  who  followeth  the  Crucified.' '        ♦ 


CHAPTER   LXXX. 


REMARKS. 


HEN    Polwarth    closed    the  manuscript,    and 
for  a  time  no  one  spoke. 

"The    man   who   wrote   that   book,"   said 
Wingfold,  "  could  not  have  been  all  out  of 
his  right  mind." 

"  I  must  confess  to  you,"  returned  Polwarth,  "  that  I 
have  chosen  some  of  the  more  striking  passages — only 
some  of  them,  however.  One  thing  is  pretty  clear — 
that,  granted  the  imagined  conditions,  within  that  cir- 
cle the  writer  is  sane  enough — as  sane  at  least  as  the 
Wandering  Jew  himself  could  well  have  been." 

"  Could  you  trust  me  with  the  manuscript,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth ?"  said  the  curate. 
"Willingly." 

"  And  I  may  carry  it  home  with  me  ?" 
"  Certainly." 

"  I  shall  take  right  good  care  of  it.  Are  there  any 
further  memorials  of  struggle  with  unbelief  ?" 

"  Yes,  there  are  some  ;  for  mood  and  not  conviction 


528  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


must,  in  such  a  mind,  often  rule  the  hour.  Sometimes 
he  can  beheve ;  sometimes  he  cannot:  he  is  a  great 
man  indeed  who  can  always  rise  above  his  own  moods  ! 
There  is  one  passage  I  specially  remember  in  which 
after  his  own  fashion  he  treats  of  the  existence  of  a 
God.  You  will  know  the  one  I  mean  when  you  come 
to  it." 

"  It  is  indeed  a  treasure  !"  said  the  curate,  taking  the 
book  and  regarding  it  with  prizing  eyes.  In  his  heart 
he  was  thinking  of  Leopold  and  Helen.  And  while  he 
thus  regarded  the  book,  he  was  himself  regarded  of  the 
gray  luminous  eyes  of  Rachel.  What  shone  from  those 
eyes  may  have  been  her  delight  at  hearing  him  so  speak 
of  the  book,  for  the  hand  that  wrote  it  was  that  of  her 
father  ;  but  there  was  a  lingering  in  her  gaze,  not  unmix- 
ed with  questioning,  and  a  certain  indescribable  liquidity 
in  its  light,  reminding  one  of  the  stars  as  seen  through  a 
clear  air  from  which  th(;  dew  settles  thick,  that  might 
have  made  a  mother  anxious.  Alas  for  many  a  woman 
whose  outward  form  is  ungainl}-^ — she  has  a  full  round 
heart  under  the  twisted  ribs  ! 

Why  then  should  I  say  alas?  Were  it  better  that  the 
heart  were  like  the  shape  }  or  are  such  as  Rachel  forgot- 
ten before  the  God  of  the  sparrows?  No,  surely;  but 
even  he  who  most  distinctly  believes  that  from  before  the 
face  of  God  every  sorrow  shall  vanish,  that  they  that  sow 
in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy,  that  death  is  but  a  mist  thai 
for  a  season  swathes  the  spirit,  and  that,  ever  as  the  self- 
seeking  vanishes  from  love,  it  groweth  more  full  of  de 
light— even  he  who  with  all  his  heart  beheves  this,  may 


REMARKS.  529 


be  mournful  over  the  aching  of  another  heart  while  yet 
it  lasts  ;  and  he  who  looks  for  his  own  death  as  his  resur- 
rection, ma}^  yet  be  sorrowful  at  every  pale  sunset  that 
reminds  him  of  the  departure  of  the  beloved  before  him. 

The  curate  rose  and  took  his  departure,  but  the  light 
of  the  gaze  that  had  rested  upon  him  lingered  yet  on 
the  countenance  of  Rachel,  and  a  sad  half-smile  hung 
over  the  motions  of  the  baby-like  fingers  that  knitted  so 
busily. 

The  draper  followed  the  curate,  and  Polwarth  went  up 
to  his  own  room  :  he  never  could  keep  off  his  knees  for 
long  together.  And  as  soon  as  she  was  alone  Rachel's 
hands  dropped  on  her  lap,  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  lips 
moved  with  solemn  sweet  motions.  If  there  was  a 
hearing  ear  open  to  that  little  house,  oh  surely  those 
two  were  blessed  !  If  not,  then  kind  death  was  yet  for  a 
certainty  drawing  nigh — only  what  if  in  deep  hell  there 
should  be  yet  a  deeper  hell  ?  And  until  slow  Death  ar- 
rive what  loving  heart  can  bear  the  load  that  stupid 
Chance  or  still  more  stupid  Fate  has  heaped  upon  it  ? 
Yet  had  I  rather  be  crushed  beneath  the  weight  of  mine, 
and  die  with  my  friends  in  the  moaning  of  eternal  fare- 
wells, than  live  like  George  Bascombe  to  carry  lightly 
his  little  bag  of  content.  A  cursed  confusion  indeed  i  ■. 
the  universe,  if  it  be  no  creation  but  the  helpless  un- 
helpable  thing  such  as  men  would  have  us  believe  it — 
the  hotbed  mother  of  the  children  of  an  iron  Necessity. 
Can  any  damnation  be  worse  than  this  damning  into  an 
existence  from  which  there  is  no  refuge  but  a  doubtful 


death  ? 


530  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

Drew  overtook  Wingfold,  and  they  walked  together 
into  Glaston. 

"  Wasn't  that  splendid  ?"  said  the  draper. 

"  Hath  not  God  chosen  the  weak  things  of  the  world 
to  confound  the  mighty  ?"  returned  the  curate.  "  Even 
through  the  play  of  a  madman's  imagination,  the  spirit 
of  a  sound  mind  may  speak.  Did  you  not  find  in  it 
some  stuff  that  would  shape  into  answers  to  your  ques- 
tions T' 

"  I  ought  to  have  done  so,  I  dare  say,"  answered  the 
draper,  "  but  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  so  taken  up  with 
the  wild  story,  and  the  style  of  the  thing,  and  the  little 
man's  way  of  reading  it,  that  I  never  thought  of  what  I 
was  full  of  when  1  came." 

They  parted  at  the  shop,  and  the  curate  went  oi. 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 


STRUGGLES. 


E  stopped  at  the  Manor  House,  for  it  was  only 
beginning  to  be  late,  to  enquire  after  Leo- 
pold. Helen  received  him  with  her  usual 
coldness — a  manner  which  was  in  part  as- 
sumed for  self-protection,  for  in  his  presence  she  always 
felt  rebuked,  and  which  had  the  effect  of  a  veil  between 
them  to  hide  from  her  much  of  the  curate's  character 
that  might  otherwise  have  been  intelligible  to  her. 
Leopold,  she  said,  was  a  little  better,  butWingfold  walked 
home  thinking  what  a  happy  thing  it  would  be  if  God 
were  to  take  him  away  indeed. 

His  interest  in  Helen  deepened  and  deepened.  He 
could  not  help  admiring  her  strength  of  character  even 
when  he  saw  it  spent  for  worse  than  nought ;  and  her 
devotion  to  her  brother  was  lovely,  notwithstanding  the 
stains  of  selfishness  that  spotted  it.  Her  moral  stan- 
dard was  far  from  lofty,  and  as  to  her  spiritual  nature, 
that  as  yet  appeared  nowhere.  And  yet  the  growth  in 
her  was  marvellous  when  he  thought  of  what  she  had 


532 


THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


seemed  before  this  trouble  came.  One  evening  as  he 
left  Leopold,  he  heard  her  singing,  and  stood  on  the 
stair  to  listen.  And  to  listen  was  to  marvel.  For  her 
voice,  instead  of  being  hard  and  dry,  as  when  he  heard  it 
before,  was,  without  any  loss  of  elasticity,  now  liquid 
and  mellifluous,  and  full  of  feeling.  Its  tones  were 
borne  along  like  the  leaves  on  the  wild  west  wind  of 
Shelley's  sonnet.  And  the  longing  of  the  curate  to 
help  her  from  that  moment  took  a  fresh  departure,  and 
grew  and  grew.  But  as  the  hours  and  days  and  weeks 
passed,  and  the  longing  found  no  outlet,  it  turned  to  an 
almost  hopeless  brooding  upon  the  face  and  the  form, 
yea  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  woman  he  so  fain  would 
help,  until  ere  long  he  loved  her  with  the  passion  of  a 
man  mingled  with  the  compassion  of  a  prophet.,  He 
saw  that  something  had  to  be  done  in  her — perhaps 
that  some  saving  shock  in  the  guise  of  ruin  had  to  visit 
her  ;  that  some  door  had  to  be  burst  open,  some  roof 
blown"  away,  some  rock  blasted,  that  light  and  air  might 
have  free  course  through  her  soul's  house,  without 
which  that  soul  could. never  grow  stately  like  the  house 
it  inhabited.  Whatever  might  be  destined  to  effect  this, 
for  the  chance  of  rendering  poorest  and  most  servile 
aid,  he  would  watch  and  did  watch,  in  silence  and  self- 
restraint,  lest  he  should  be  betrayed  into  any  presump- 
tuous word  that  might  breathe  fr^t  instead  of  balm 
upon  the  buds  of  her  delaying  spring.  If  he  might  but 
be  allowed  to  minister  when  at  length  the  sleeping  soul 
should  stir  !  If  its  waking  glance— ah  !  if  it  might  fall 
on  him  !     As  often  as  the  thought  intruded,  his  heart 


STRUGGLES.  533 


would  give  one  delirious  bound,  then  couch  ashamed 
of  its  presumption.  He  would  not,  he  dared  not  look 
in  that  direction.  He  accused  himself  of  mingling-  earth- 
ly motives  and  feelings  with  the  unselfish  and  true,  and 
scorned  himself  because  of  it.  And  was  not  Bascon:bc 
already  the  favoured  friend  of  her  heart  ?  Yet  how 
could  it  be  of  her  heart  ?  for  what  concern  had  hearts 
in  a  common  unbelief?  None;  but  there  were  hearts 
— the  man  and  the  woman — notwithstanding,  who  might 
yet  well  be  drawn  together  by  the  unknown  divine 
which  they  also  shared  ;  and  that  Helen,  whose  foot 
seemed  now  to  approach  and  now  to  shun  the  line  be- 
twixt the  kingdom  of  this  world  and  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  should  retire  with  such  a  guide  into  the  desert 
of  denial  and  chosen  godlessness,  was  to  Wingfold  a 
thought  of  torture  almost  unendurable.  The  thought 
of  its  possibility,  nay,  probability — for  were  not  such 
unfitnesses  continually  becoming  facts  ? — threatened 
sometimes  to  upset  the  whole  fabric  of  his  faith,  al- 
though reared  in  spite  of  theology,  adverse  philosophy, 
and  the  most  honest  and  bewildering  doubt.  That  such 
a  thing  should,  be  possible  seemed  at  those  times  to 
bear  more  against  the  existence  of  a  God,  than  all  the 
other  grounds  of  question  together.  Then  a  shudder 
would  go  to  the  very  deeps  of  his  heart,  and  he  would 
lay  himself  silent  before  the  presence  for  a  time;  or 
make  haste  into  the  solitudes — not  where  the  sun  shone 
and  the  water  ran,  but  where  the  light  was  dim  and  the 
wind  low  in  the  pine  woods.  There,  where  the  sombre 
green  vaults  were  upheld  by  a  hundred  slender  columns, 


534  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

and  the  far-receding  aisles  seemed  to  lead  to  the  ances- 
tral home  of  shadows,  there,  his  own  soul  a  shadow  of 
grief  and  fear  among  the  shades  of  the  gloom)'-  temple,  he 
bowed  his  heart  before  the  Eternal,  gathered  together  all 
the  might  of  his  being,  and  groaned  forth  in  deepest 
effort  of  a  will  that  struggled  to  be  :  "  Thy  will  be  done, 
and  not  mine."  Then  would  his  spirit  again  walk  erect, 
and  carry  its  burden  as  a  cross  and  not  as  a  gravestone. 
Sometimes  he  was  sorely  perplexed  to  think  how  the 
weakness,  as  he  called  it,  had  begun,  and  how  it  had 
grown  upon  him.  He  could  not  say  it  was  his  doing, 
and  what  had  he  ever  been  aware  of  in  it  against  which 
he  ought  to  have  striven  ?  Came  not  the  whole  thing 
of  his  nature,  a  nature  that  was  not  of  his  design,  and 
was  beyond  him  and  his  control — a  nature  that  either 
sprung  from  a  God,  or  grew  out  of  an  unconscious  Fate  } 
If  from  the  latter,  how  was  such  as  he  to  encounter 
and  reduce  to  a  constrained  and  self-rejecting  reason  a 
Self  unreasonable,  being  an  issue  of  the  Unreasoning, 
which  Self  was  yet  greater  than  he,  its  vagaries  the 
source  of  his  intensest  consciousness  and  brightest 
glimpses  of  the  ideal  and  all-desirable.  If  on  the  other 
hand  it  was  born  of  a  God,  then  let  that  God  look  to  it, 
for,  sure,  that  which  belonged  to  his  nature  could  not  be 
evil  or  of  small  account  in  the  eyes  of  him  who  made  him 
in  his  own  image.  But  alas  !  that  image  had,  no  matter 
how,  been  so  defaced,  that  the  will  of  the  man  might 
even  now  be  setting  itself  up  against  the  will  of  the  God  ! 
Did  his  love  then  spring  from  the  God-will  or  the  man- 
will  }    Must  there  not  be  some  God-way  of  the  thing,  all 


STRUGGLES.  535 

right  and  nothing  wrong  ? — But  he  could  not  compass 
it,  and  the  marvel  to  hmiself  was  that  all  the  time  he 
was  able  to  go  on  preaching,  and  that  with  some  sense 
of  honesty  and  joy  in  his  work. 

In  this  trouble  more  than  ever  Wingfold  felt  that  if 
there  was  no  God,  his  soul  was  but  a  thing  of  rags  and 
patches  out  in  the  masterless  pitiless  storm  and  hail  of 
a  chaotic  universe.  Often  would  he  rush  into  the  dark, 
as  it  were,  crying  for  God,  and  ever  he  would  emerge- 
therefrom  with  some  tincture  of  the  light,  enough  to 
keep  him  alive  ana  send  him  to  his  work.  And  there 
in  her  own  seat,  Sunday  afier  Sunday;  sat  the  woman 
whom  he  had  seen  ten  times,  and  that  for  no  hasty  mo- 
ments, during  the  week,  by  the  bedside  of  her  brother, 
yet  to  whom  only  now,  in  the  open  secrecy  of  the  pul- 
pit, did  he  dare  utter  the  words  of  might  he  would  so 
fain  have  poured  direct  into  her  suffering  heart.  And 
there,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  the^face  he  loved  bore  wit- 
ness to  the  trouble  of  the  heart  he  loved  yet  more  :  that 
heart  was  not  yet  redeemed  !  oh,  might  it  be  granted 
him  to  set  some  little  wind  a  blowing  for  its  revival  and 
hope  !  As  often  as  he  stood  up  to  preach,  his  heart 
swelled  with  the  message  he  bore — a  message  of  no  pri- 
vate interpretation,  but  for  the  healing  of  the  nations, 
yet  a  message  for  her,  and  for  the  healing  of  every  indi- 
vidual heart  that  would  hear  and  take,  and  he  spoke  with 
the  freedom  and  dignity  of  a  prophet.  But  when  he 
saw  her  afterwards  he  scarcely  dared  let  his  eyes  rest  a 
moment  on  her  face,  would  only  pluck  the  flower  of  a 
glance   flying,  or   steal    it   at   such  moments   when  he 


536  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

thought  she  would  not  see.  She  caught  his  glance 
however  far  oftener  than  he  knew,  and  was  sometimes 
aware  of  it  without  seeing  it  at  all.  And  there  was  that 
in  the  curate's  behaviour,  in  his  absolute  avoidance  ot 
self-assertion,  or  the  least  possible  intrusion  upon  her 
mental  privacy — in  the  wrapping  of  his  garments 
around  him,  as  it  were,  that  his  presence  might  ofTend  as 
little  as  might  be,  while  at  the  same  time  he  was  full  of 
simple  direct  ministration  to  her  brother,  without  one 
side-glance  that  sought  approval  of  her,  which  the  no- 
bility ot  the  woman  could  not  fail  to  note,  and  seek  to 
understand. 

It  was  altogether  a  time  of  great  struggle  with  Wing- 
fold.  He  seemed  to  be  assailed  in  every  ditection,  and 
to  feel  the  strong  house  of  life  giving  way  in  every  part, 
and  yet  he  held  on — lived,  which  he  thought  was  all, 
and,  without  knowing  it,  grew.  Perhaps  it  may  be  to 
this  period  that  the  following  verses  which  I  found  among 
his  papers  belong  :  he  could  not  himself  tell  me. — 


Out  of  my  door  I  run  to  do  the  thing 
That  calls  upon  me.     Straight  the  wind  of  words 
Whoops  from  mine  ears  the  sounds  of  them  that  sing 
About  their  work — My  God  !  my  Father-King. 

I  turn  in  haste  to  see  thy  blessed  door, 
But  lo  !  a  cloud  of  flies  and  bats  and  birds, 
And  stalking  vapours,  and  vague  monster  herds 
Have  risen  and  lighted,  rushed  and  swollen  between. 


STRUGGLES. 


537 


Ah  me  !  the  house  of  peace  is  there  no  more. 
Was  it  a  dream  then?  Walls,  fireside,  and   floor, 
And  sweet  obedience,  loving,  calm,  and  free, 
Are  vanished — gone  as  they  had  never  been. 

I  labor  groaning.     Comes  a  sudden  sheen  ! — 
And  I  am  kneeling  at  my  Father's  knee. 
Sighing  with  jo}',  and  hoping  utterly. 


CHAPTER    LXXXII. 


THE      LAWN. 


EOPOLD  had  begun  to  cough,  and  the  fever 
continued.  Every  afternoon  came  the  red 
flush  to  his  cheek,  and  the  hard  glitter  into 
his  eye.  His  talk  was  then  excited,  and  most- 
ly about  his  coming  trial.  To  Helen  it  was  terribly  pain- 
ful and  she  confessed  to  herself  that  but  for  Wingfold  she 
must  have  given  way.  Leopold  insisted  on  seeing  Mr. 
Hooker  every  time  he  called,  and  every  time  expressed 
the  hope  that  he  would  not  allow  pity  for  his  weak  state 
to  prevent  him  from  applying  the  severe  remedy  of  the 
law  to  his  moral  condition.  But  in  truth  it  began  to 
look  doubtful  whether  disease  would  not  run  a  race 
with  law  for  his  life,  even  if  the  latter  should  at  once  pro- 
ceed to  justify  a  claim.  From  the  first  Faber  doubted 
if  he  would  ever  recover  from  the  consequences  of  that 
exposure  in  the  churchyard,  and  it  soon  became  evident 
that  his  lungs  were  more  than  affected.  His  cough  in- 
creased and  he  began  to  lose  what  little  flesh  he  had. 
One  day  Faber  expressed  his  conviction  to  Wingfold 


THE   LAWN. 


539 


that  he  was  fighting  the  disease  at  the  great  disadvan- 
tage of  having  an  unknown  enemy  to  contend  with. 

"The  fellow  is  unhappy,"  he  said,  "and  if  that  lasts 
another  month  I  shall  throw  up  the  sponge.  He  has  a 
good  deal  of  vitality,  but  it  is  yielding,  and  by  that  time 
he  will  be  in  a  galloping  consumption." 

"  You  must  do  your  best  for  him,"  said  Wingfold,  but 
in  his  heart  he  wished,  with  an  honest  affection,  that  he 
might  not  succeed. 

Leopold,  however,  seemed  to  have  no  idea  of  his  con- 
dition, and  the  curate  wondered  what  he  would  think  or 
do  were  he  to  learn  that  he  was  dying.  Would  he  in- 
sist on  completing  his  confession,  and  urging  on  a  trial  ? 
He  had  himself  told  him  all  that  had  passed  with  the 
magistrate,  and  how  things  now  were  as  he  understood 
them,  but  it  was  plain  that  he  had  begun  to  be  uneasy 
about  the  affair,  and  was  doubtful  at  times  whether  all 
was  as  it  seemed.  The  curate  was  not  deceived.  He 
had  been  present  during  a  visit  from  Mr.  Hooker,  and 
nothing  could  be  plainer  than  the  impression  out  of  which 
the  good  man  spoke.  Nor  could  he  fail  to  suspect  the 
cunning  kindness  of  George  Bascombe  in  the  affair. 
But  he  did  not  judge  that  he  had  now  the  least  call  to 
interfere.  The  poor  boy  had  done  as  much  as  lay  either  in 
or  out  of  him  in  the  direction  of  duty,  and  was  daily  be- 
coming more  and  more  unfit  either  to  originate  or  carry 
out  a  further  course  of  action.  It  he  was  in  himself  ca- 
pable of  anything  more,  he  was,  in  his  present  state  of 
weakness,  utterly  unable  to  cope  with  the  will  of  those 
around  him. 


540  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


Faber  would  have  had  him  leave  the  country  for  some 
southern  climate,  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  Helen, 
knowing  to  what  extremities  it  might  drive  him,  would 
not  insist.  Nor,  indeed,  \yas  he  now  in  a  condition  to 
be  moved.  Also  the  weather  had  grown  colder,  and  he 
was  sensitive  to  atmospheric  changes  as  any  creature 
of  the  elements. 

But  after  a  fortnight,  when  it  was  now  the  middle  of  the 
autumn,  it  grew  quite  warm  again,  and  he  revived  and 
made  such  progress  that  he  was  able  to  be  carried  into 
the  garden  every  day.  He  sat  in  a  chair  on  the  lawn, 
with  his  feet  on  a  sheepskin,  and  a  fur  cloak  about  him. 
And  for  all  the  pain  at  his  heart,  for  all  the  misery  in 
which  no  one  could  share,  for  all  the  pangs  of  a  help- 
less jealousy,  checked  only  by  a  gnawing  remorse,  both 
of  which  took  refuge  in  the  thought  of  following 
through  the  spheres  until  he  found  her,  cast  himself  at 
her  feet,  spoke  the  truth,  and  became,  if  he  might,  her 
slave  for  ever,  failing  which  he  could  but  turn  and  go 
wandering  through  the  spheres,  seeking  rest  and  find- 
ing none,  save  indeed  there  were  some  salvation  even 
for  him  in  the  bosom  of  his  God — I  say  that,  somehow, 
f.vith  all  this  on  the  brain  and  in  the  heart  of  him,  the  sun- 
shine was  yet  pleasant  in  his  eyes,  while  it  stung  him  to 
the  soul ;  the  soft  breathing  of  the  wind  was  pleasant  to 
his  cheek,  while  he  cursed  himself  for  the  pleasure  it 
gave  him  ;  the  few  flowers  that  were  left  looked  up  at 
him  mournfully,  and  he  let  them  look,  nor  turned  his 
eyes  away,  but  let  the  tears  gather  and  flow.  The  first 
agonies  of  the  encounter  of  life  and  death  were  over 


THE    LAWN.  541 


and  life  was  slowly  wasting  away.  Oh  what  might  not 
a  little  joy  do  for  him  !  But  where  was  the  joy  to  be 
found  that  could  irradiate  such  a  darkness,  even  for  one 
fair  memorial  moment  ? 

One  hot  noon  Wingfold  lay  beside  him  on  the  grass. 
Neither  had  spoken  for  some  time  :  the  curate  more  and 
more  shrunk  from  speech  to  which  his  heart  was  not 
directly  moved.  As  to  what  might  be  in  season  or  out  of 
season,  he  never  would  pretend  to  judge,  he  said,  but 
even  Balaam's  ass  knew  when  he  had  a  call  to  speak.  He 
plucked  a  pale-red  pimpemell  and  handed  it  up  over  his 
head  to  Leopold.  The  youth  looked  at  it  for  a  moment 
and  burst  into  tears.     The  curate  rose  hastily. 

"  It  is  so  heartless  of  me,"  said  Leopold,  "  to  take 
pleasure  in  such  a  childish  innocence  as  this  ! 

"  It  merely  shows,"  said  the  curate,  laying  his  hand 
gently  on  his  shoulder,  "  that  even  in  these  lowly  loveli- 
nesses, there  is  a  something  that  has  its  root  deeper  than 
your  pain  ;  that,  all  about  us,  in  earth  and  air,  wherever 
eye  or  ear  can  reach  there  is  a  power  ever  breath- 
ing itself  forth  in  signs,  now  in  a  daisy,  now  in  a  wind- 
waft,  a  cloud,  a  sunset ;  a  power  that  holds  constant  and 
sweetest  relation  with  the  dark  and  silent  world  within 
us  ;  that  the  same  God  who  is  in  us,  and  upon  whose 
tree  we  are  the  buds,  if  not  yet  the  flowers,  also  is  all 
about  us— inside,  the  Spirit ;  outside,  the  Word.  And 
the  two  are  ever  trying  to  meet  in  us  ;  and  when  they 
meet,  then  the  sign  without,  and  the  longing  within, 
become  one  in  light,  and  the  man  no  more  walketh  in 
darkness,  but  knowcth  whither  he  goeth." 


542  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

As  he  ended  thus,  the  curate  bent  over  and  looked  at 
Leopold.  But  the  poor  boy  had  not  listened  to  a  word 
he  said.  Something  in  his  tone  had  soothed  him,  but 
the  moment  he  ceased,  the  vein  of  his  grief  burst  out 
bleeding  afresh.  He  clasped  his  thin  hands  together, 
and  looked  up  in  an  agony  of  hopeless  appeal  to  the  blue 
sky,  now  grown  paler  as  in  fear  of  the  coming  cold, 
though  still  the  air  was  warm  and  sweet,  and  cried, 

"  Oh  !  if  God  would  be  good  and  unmake  me,  and  let 
the  darkness  cover  the  place  where  once  was  me  I  That 
would  be  like  a  good  God  !  AH  I  should  be  sorry  for 
then  would  be,  that  there  was  not  enough  of  me  left  for 
a  dim  flitting  Will-o'-the-wisp  of  praise,  ever  singing  my 
thankfulness  to  him  that  I  was  no  more. — Yet  even 
then  my  deed  would  remain,  for  I  dare  not  ask  that  she 
should  die  outright  also — that  would  be  to  heap  wrong 
upon  wrong.  What  an  awful  thing  being  is  !  Not  even 
my  annihilation  could  make  up  for  my  crime,  or  rid  it 
out  of  the  universe." 

"  True,  Leopold  !"  said  the  curate.  "  Nothing  but 
the  burning  love  of  God  can  rid  sin  out  of  anywhere. 
But  are  you  not  forgetting  him  who  surely  knew  what 
he  undertook  when  he  would  save  the  world  ?  No 
more  than  you  could  have  set  that  sun  flaming  over- 
head, with  its  million-miled  billows  and  its  limitless 
tempests  of  fire,  can  you  tell  what  the  love  of  God  is,  or 
what  it  can  do  for  you,  if  only  by  enlarging  your  love 
with  the  inrush  of  itself.  Few  men  have  such  a  cry  to 
raise  to  the  Father  as  you,  such  a  claim  of  sin  and  help- 
lessness to  heave  up  before  him,  such  a  joy  even  to 


THE   LAWN. 


543 


offer  to  the  great  Shepherd  who  cannot  rest  while  one 
sheep  strays  from  his  flock,  one  prodigal  haunts  the  dens 
of  evil  and  waste.  Cry  to  him,  Leopold,  my  dear  boy. 
Cry  to  him  again  and  yet  again,  for  he  himself  said  that 
men  ought  always  to  pray  and  not  to  faint,  for  God  did 
hear  and  would  answer  although  he  might  seem  long 
about  it.  I  think  we  shi^ll  find  one  day  that  nobody,  not 
the  poet  of  widest  sweep  and  most  daring  imagination, 
not  the  prophet  who  soars  the  highest  in  his  ardour  to 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  men,  not  the  child  when  he 
is  most  fully  possessed  of  the  angel  that  in  heaven 
always  beholds  the  face  of  the  Father  of  Jesus,  has  come 
or  could  have  come  v/ithin  sight  of  the  majesty  of 
his  bestowing  upon  his  children.  For  did  he  not.  if  the 
story  be  true,  allow  torture  itself  to  invade  the  very 
soul's  citadel  of  his  best  beloved,  as  he  went  to  seek  the 
poor  ape  of  a  prodigal,  stupidly  grinning  amongst  his 
harlots  ?" 

Leopold  did  not  answer,  and  the  shadow  lay  deep  on 
his  face  for  a  while  ;  but  at  length  it  began  to  thin,  and 
at  last  a  feeble  quivering  smile  broke  through  the 
cloud,  and  he  wept  soft  tears  of  refreshing. 

It  was  not  that  the  youth  had  turned  again  from  the 
hope  of  rest  in  the  Son  of  Man  ;  but  that,  as  every  one 
knows  who  know^s  anything  of  the  human  spirit,  there 
must  be  in  its  history  days  and  seasons,  mornings  and 
nights,  yea  deepest  midnights.  It  has  its  alternating  sum- 
mer and  winter,  its  storm  and  shine,  its  soft  dews  and  its 
tempests  of  lashing  hail,  its  coW  moonb  and  prophetic 
stars,  its  pale  twilights  of  saddest  memory,  and  its  gold- 


544  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CtfRATE. 

en  gleam  of  brightest  hope.  All  these  mingled  and  dis- 
placed each  other  in  Leopold's  ruined  world,  where  chaos 
had  come  again,  but  over  whose  waters  a  mightier 
breath  was  now  moving. 

And  now  after  much  thought,  the  curate  saw  that  he 
could  not  hope  to  transplant  into  the  bosom  of  the  lad 
the  flowers  of  truth  that  gladdened  his  own  garden  ;  he 
must  sow  the  seed  from  which  they  had  sprung,  and 
that  seed  was  the  knowledge  of  the  true  Jesus.  It  was 
now  the  more  possible  to  help  him  in  this  way,  that 
the  wild  beast  of  his  despair  had  taken  its  claws  from 
his  bosom,  had  withdrawn  a  pace  or  two,  and  couched 
watching.  And  Wingfold  soon  found  that  nothing 
calmed  and  brightened  him  like  talk  about  Jesus.  He 
had  tried  verse  first — seeking  out  the  best  within  his 
reach  wherein  loving  souls  have  uttered  their  devotion 
to  the  man  of  men  ;  but  here  also  the  flowers  would  not 
be  transplanted.  How  it  came  about  he  hardly  knew, 
but  he  had  soon  drifted  into  rather  than  chosen  another 
way,  which  way  proved  a  right  one  :  he  would  begin 
thinking  aloud  on  some  part  of  the  gospel  story,  gene- 
rally that  which  was  most  in  his  mind  at  the  time — talk- 
ing with  himself,  as  it  were,  all  about  it.  He  began  this  one 
morning  as  he  lay  on  the  grass  beside  him,  and  that  was 
the  position  in  which  he  found  he  could  best  soliloquize. 
Now  and  then,  but  not  often,  Leopold  would  interrupt 
him,  and  perhaps  turn  the  monologue  into  dialogue,  but 
£ven  then  Wingfold  would  hardly  ever  look  at  him  :  he 
would  not  disturb  him  with  more  of  his  presence  than 
tie  could  help,  or  allow  the  truth  to  be  flavoured  with 


THE   LAWN.  545 


more  of  his  individuality  than  was  unavoidable.  For 
every  individuality,  he  argued,  has  a  peculiar  flavour  to 
every  other,  and  only  Jesus  is  the  pure  simple  humani- 
ty that  every  one  can  love,  out  and  out,  at  once.  In 
these  mental  meanderings,  he  avoided  nothing,  took 
notice  of  every  difficulty,  whether  able  to  discuss  it  ful- 
ly or  not,  broke  out  in  words  of  delight  when  his  spirit 
was  moved,  nor  hid  his  disappointment  when  he  failed  in 
getting  at  what  might  seem  good  enuogh  to  be  the 
heart  of  the  thing.  It  was  like  hatching  a  sermon  in 
the  sun  instead  of  in  the  oven.  Occasionally,  when, 
having  ceased,  he  looked  up  to  know  how  his  pupil 
fared,  he  found  him  fast  asleep — sometimes  with  a 
smile,  sometimes  with  a  tear  on  his  face.  The  sight 
would  satisfy  him  well.  Calm  upon  such  a  tormented 
sea  must  be  the  gift  of  God  ;  and  the  curate  would  then 
sometimes  fall  asleep  himself — to  start  awake  at  the  first 
far  off  sound  of  Helen's  dress  as  it  swept  a  running  fire 
of  fairy  fog-signals  from  the  half-opened  buds  of  the 
daisies,  and  the  long  heads  of  the  rib  grass,  when  he 
would  rise  and  saunter  a  few  paces  aside,  and  she  would 
bend  over  her  brother,  to  see  if  he  were  warm  and  com- 
fortable. By  this  time  all  the  old  tenderness  of  her 
ministration  had  returned,  nor  did  she  seem  any  longer 
jealous  of  Wingfold's. 

One  day  she  came  behind  them  as  they  talked.  The 
grass  had  been  mown  that  morning,  and  also  she  hap' 
pened  to  be  dressed  in  her  riding  habit  and  had  gath- 
ered up  the  skirt  over  her  arm,  so  that  on  this  occasion 
she  made  no  sound  of  sweet  approach.     Wingfold  had 


546  THOMAS   WINGFOLD.    CURATE. 


been   uttering    one  of    his    rambling    monologues -in 
which  was  much  without  form,  but  nothing  void. 

"  1  don't  know  quite,"  he  had  been  saying,  "  what  to 
think  about  that  story  of  the  woman  they  brought  to 
Jesus  in  the  temple — I  mean  how  it  got  into  that  nooK 
of  the  gospel  of  St.  John,  where  it  has  no  right  place. — 
They  didn't  bring  her  for  healing  or  for  the  rebuke  of  her 
demon,  but  for  condemnation,  only  they  came  to  the 
wrong  man  for  that.  They  darecj  not  carry  out  the  law 
of  stoning,  as  they  would  have  liked,  1  suppose,  even  if 
Jesus  had  condemned  her,  but  perhaps  they  hoped 
rather  to  entrap  him  who  was  the  friend  of  sinners  into 
saying  something  against  the  law. — But  what  I  want  is, 
to  know  how  it  got  there — ^just  there,  I  mean  betwixt 
the  seventh  and  eighth  chapters  of  St.  John's  Gospel. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  an  interpolation — that  the 
twelfth  verse,  I  think  it  is,  ought  to  join  on  to  the  fifty- 
second.  The  Alexandrian  manuscript  is  the  only  one  of 
the  three  oldest  that  has  it,  and  it  is  the  latest  of  the 
three.  I  did  think  once,  but  hastily,  that  it  was  our 
Lord's  text  for  saying  /  a77i  the  light  of  the  world,  but  it 
follows  quite  as  well  on  his  offer  of  living  water.  One 
can  easily  see  how  the  place  would  appear  a  very  suita- 
ble one  to  any  presumptuous  scribe  who  wished  to  settle 
the  question  of  where  it  should  stand. — I  wonder  if  St. 
John  told  the  lovely  tale  as  something  he  had  forgotten 
after  he  had  finished  dictating  all  the  rest.  Or  was  it 
well  known  to  all  the  evangelists,  only  no  one  of  them 
was  yet  partaker  enough  of  the  spirit  of  him  who  was 
the  friend  of  sinners,  to  dare  put  it  on  written  record, 


THE    LAWN.  547 


thinking  it  hardly  a  safe  story  to  expose  to  the  quarry- 
ing of  men's  conclusions.  But  it  doesn't  matter  much  : 
the  tale  must  be  a  true  one.  Only — to  think  of  just 
this  one  story,  of  tenderest  righteousness,  floating 
about  like  a  holy  waif  through  the  world  of  lettersl — • 
a  sweet  gray  dove  of  promise  that  can  find  no  rest  for 
the  sole  of  its  foot!  Just  this  one  story  of  all  stories  a 
kind  of  outcast  !  and  yet  as  a  wanderer,  oh  how  welcome  I 
Some  manuscripts,  I  understand,  have  granted  it  a  sort 
of  outhouse-shelter  at  the  end  of  the  gospel  of  St. 
Luke.  But  it  all  matters  nothing,  so  long  as  we  can 
believe  it ;  and  true  it  must  be,  it  is  so  like  him  all 
through.  And  if  it  does  go  wandering  as  a  stray  through 
the  gospels  without  place  of  its  own,  what  matters  it 
so  long  as  it  can  find  hearts  enough  to  nestle  in,  and 
bring  forth  its  young  of  comfort  ! — Perhaps  the  woman 
herself  told  it,  and,  as  with  the  woman  of  Samaria,  some 
would  and  some  would  not  believe  her. — Oh  !  the  eyes 
that  met  upon  her  !  The  fiery  hail  of  scorn  from  those 
of  the  Pharisees — the  light  of  eternal  sunshine,  from 
those  of  Jesus  ! — I  was  reading  the  other  day,  in  one  of 
the  old  Miracle  Plays,  how  each  that  looked  on  while 
Jesus  wrote  with  his  finger  on  the  ground,  imagined  he 
was  writing  down  his  individual  sins,  and  was  in  terror 
lest  his  neighbour  should  come  to  know  them. — And 
wasn't  he  gentle  even  with  those  to  whom  he  was  sharp- 
er than  a  two-edged  sword  !  and  oh  how  gentle  to  her 
he  would  cover  from  their  rudeness  and  wrong!  Let 
the  smless  throw  f  And  the  sinners  went  out,  and  she 
followed — to  sin  no  more.     No  reproaches,   you  see  ! 


548  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

No  stirring  up  of  the  fiery  snakes  !     Only  don't  do  it 
again. — I  don't  think  she  did  it  again  : — do  you  ?" 

It  was  just  here  that  Helen  came  and  stood  behind 
Leopold's  chair.  The  curate  lay  on  the  grass,  and  nei- 
ther saw  her. 


\ 


CHAPTER    LXXXIII. 


HOW    JESUS    SPOKE    TO    WOMEN. 


^^^  UT  why  wasn't  he  as  gentle  with  good  wo- 
men ?"  said  Leopold. 

"  Wasn't  he  ?"  said  the  curate  in  some  sur- 
prise. 

"He  said  Wkal  have  I  to  do  with  thee?  to  his  own 
mother." 

"  A  Greek  scholar  should  go  to  the  Greek,"  said  the 
curate.  "  Our  English  is  not  perfect.  You  see  she 
wanted  to  make  him  show  off,  and  he  thought  how  lit- 
tle she  knew  what  he  came  to  the  world  for.  Her 
thoughts  were  so  unlike  his  that  he  said,  What  have 
we  in  common  !  It  was  a  moan  of  the  Godhead  over 
the  distance  of  its  creature.  Perhaps  he  thought : 
How  then  will  you  stand  the  shock  when  at  length  it 
comes  }  But  he  looked  at  her  as  her  own  son  ought  to 
look  at  every  blessed  mother,  and  she  read  in  his  eyes 
no  rebuke,  for  instantly,  sure  of  her  desire,  she  told 
them  to  do  whatever  he  said." 


550  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

"  I  hope  that's  the  right  way  of  it,"  said  Leopold,  "  for 
I  want  to  trust  him  out  and  out.  But  what  do  you 
make  of  the  story  of  the  poor  woman  that  came  about 
her  daughter.^  Wasn't  he  rough  to  her  It  always 
seemed  to  me  such  a  cruel  thing  to  talk  of  throwing  the 
meat  of  the  children  to  the  dogs  !" 

"  We  cannot  judge  of  the  word  until  we  know  the 
spirit  that  gave  birth  to  it.  Let  me  ask  you  a  question  : 
What  would  you  take  for  the  greatest  proof  of  down- 
right friendship  a  man  could  show  you  ?" 

"  That  is  too  hard  a  question  to  answer  all  at  once." 

"  Well.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  the  deepest  outcome  of 
friendship  seems  to  me,  on  the  part  of  the  superior  at 
least,  the  permission,  or  better  still,  the  call,  to  share  in 
his  sufferings.  And  in  saying  that  hard  word  to  the 
poor  Gentile,  our  Lord  honored  her  thus  mightily.  He 
assumed  for  the  moment  the  part  of  the  Jew  towards  the 
Gentile,  that  he  might,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  world  of 
Gentiles  and  Jews,  lay  bare  to  his  Jewish  followers  the 
manner  of  spirit  they  were  of,  and  let  them  see  what  a 
lovely  humanity  they  despised  in  their  pride  of  election. 
He  took  her  to  suffer  with  him  for  the  salvation  of  the 
world.  The  cloud  overshadowed  them  both,  but  what 
words  immediately  thereafter  made  a ^lory  in  her  heart  ! 
He  spoke  to  her  as  if  her  very  faith  had  reached  an  arm 
into  the  heavens,  and  brought  therefrom  the  thing  she 
sought.  But  I  confess,"  the  curate  went  on,  "  those 
two  passages  have  both  troubled  me.  So  I  presume 
will  everything  that  is  God's,  until  it  becomes  a  strength 
and  a  light  by  revealing  its  true  nature  to  the  heart  that 


HOW   JESUS    SPOKE   TO    WOMEN.  ^$1 

has  grown  capable  of  understanding  it.  The  first  sign 
of  the  coming  capacity  and  the  coming  joy,  is  the  anxi- 
et/  and  the  question. — There  is  another  passage,  which, 
although  it  does  not  trouble  me  so  much,  I  cannot  yet 
get  a  right  perception  of.  When  Mary  Magdalene  took 
the  Master  of  Death  for  the  gardener — the  gardener  of 
the  garden  of  the  tombs  !  no  great  mistake,  was  it  .'* — it 
is  a  lovely  thing  that  mistaking  of  Jesus  for  the  garden- 
er ! — how  the  holy  and  the  lowly,  yea  the  holy  and  the 
common  meet  on  all  sides  !  Just  listen  to  their  morn- 
ing talk — the  morning  of  the  eternal  open  world  to 
Jesus  while  the  sh?.dows  of  this  narrow  life  still  clustered 
around  Mary  : — I  can  give  it  you  exactly,  for  I  was 
reading  it  this  very  day. 

"  '  Woman,  why  weepest  thou }  Whom  seekest 
thou  ?' 

"  '  Sir,  if  thou  have  borne  him  hence,  tell  me  where  thou 
hast  laid  him,  and  I  will  take  him  away.' 

"  '  Mary.' 

"  '  Master  I' 

"  '  Touch  me  not  ;  for  I  am  not  yet  ascended  to  my 
Father :  but  go  to  my  brethren,  and  say  unto  them,  I 
ascend  unto  my  Father  and  your  Father  ;  and  to  my 
God  and  your  God.' 

"  Why  dM  he  say,  Bo  not  touch  me?  It  could  not  be 
that  there  was  any  defilement  to  one  in  the  new  body 
of  the  resurrection,  from  contact  with  one  still  in  the 
old  garments  of  humanity.  But  could  it  be  that  there 
was  danger  to  her  in  the  contact  }  Was  there  something 
in  the  new  house  frotti  heaven  hurtful  to  the  old  taber- 


552  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

nacle  ?  1  can  hardly  believe  it  Perhaps  it  might  be. 
But  we  must  look  at  the  reason  the  Master  gives — only 
of  all  words  hard  to  understand,  the  little  conjunctions 
arc  sometimes  the  hardest.  Wh-at  can  that  for  mean.? 
'Touch  me  not,y"^rI  am  not  yet  ascended  to  my  Father.' 
Does  it  mean,  '  1  must  first  present  myself  to  my  Father  ; 
I  must  first  have  his  hand  laid  on  this  body  new 
risen  from  the  grave  ;  I  must  go  home  first  ?'  The 
child  must  kiss  his  mother  first,  then  his  sisters  and 
brothers  :  was  it  so  with  Jesus  ?  Was  he  so  glad  in  his 
father,  that  he  must  carry  even  the  human  body  he  had 
rescued  eternal  from  the  grave,  home  to  shew  him  first  ? 
There  are  many  difficulties  about  the  interpretation,  and 
even  if  true,  it  would  still  shock  every  heart  whose  de- 
votion was  less  than  absolutely  child-like.  Was  not 
God  wz^/i  him,  as  close  to  him  as  even  God  could  come 
to  his  eternal  son — in  him — one  with  him,  all  the  time  ? 
How  could  he  get  nearer  to  him  by  going  to  heaven  ? 
What  headquarters,  what  court  of  place  and  circum- 
stance should  the  Eternal,  Immortal,  Invisible  hold  ? 
And  yet  if  from  him  fllow  time  and  space,  although  he  can 
not  be  subject  to  them;  if  his  son  could  incarnate  him- 
self— cast  the  living,  responsive,  elastic,  flowing,  evan- 
ishing circumstance  of  a  human  garment  around  him  ; 
if,  as  Novalis  says,  God  can  become  whatever  he  can 
create,  then  may  there  not  be  some  central  home  of 
God,  holding  relation  even  to  time  and  space  and 
sense  ?  But  I  am  bewildered  about  it. — Jesus  stood 
then  in  the  meeting  point  of  both  worlds,  or  rather  in  the 
skirts  of  the  great  world  that  infolds  the  less.     lam 


HOW   JESUS   SPOKE  TO   WOMEN.  553 

talking  like  a  baby,  for  my  words  can  not  compass  or 
even  represent  m}'- thoughts.  This  world  looks  to  us  the 
natural  and  simple  one,  and  so  it  is — absolutely  fitted  to 
our  need  and  education.  But  there  is  that  in  us  which 
is  not  at  home  in  this  world,  which  I  believe  holds  se- 
cret relations  with  every  star  or  perhaps  rather  with 
that  in  the  heart  of  God  whence  issued  every  star,  di- 
verse in  kind  and  character  as  in  color  and  place  and 
motion  and  light.  To  that  in  us  this  world  is  so  far 
strange  and  unnatural  and  unfitting,  and  we  need  a  yet 
homelier  home."  Yea,  no  home  at  last  will  do  but  the 
home  of  God's  heart.  Jesus,  I  say,  was  now  looking,  on 
one  side,  into  the  region  of  a  deeper  life,  where  his  peo- 
ple, those  that  knew  their  own  when  they  saw  him, 
would  one  day  find  themselves  tenfold  at  home  ;  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  was  looking  into  the  region  of 
their  present  life,  which  custom  and  faithlessness  makes 
them  afraid  to  leave.  But  we  need  not  fear  what  the 
new  conditions  of  life  will  bring,  either  for  body  or  heart, 
they  will  be  nearer  and  sweeter  to  our  deeper  being  as 
Jesus  is  nearer  and  dearer  than  any  man  because  he  is 
more  human  than  any.  He  is  all  that  we  can  love  or 
look  for,  and  at  the  root  of  that  very  loving  and  look- 
ing.— '  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions,'  he 
said.  Matter,  time,  space,  are  all  God's,  and  whatever  may 
become  of  our  philosophies,  whatever  he  does  with  or 
in  respect  cf  time,  place,  and  what  we  call  matter,  his 
doing  must  be  true  in  philosophy  as  well  as  fact.  But 
I  am  wandering." 
The  curate  was  wandering,  but  the  liberty  of  vyander?. 


554  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

ing  was  essential  to  his  talking  with  the  kind  of  freedom 
and  truth  he  wanted  to  mediate  betwixt  his  pupil  and  the 
lovely  things  he  saw. 

"  I  wonder  where  the  penitent  thief  was  all  the  time," 
said  Leopold. 

"  Yes,  that  also  is  a  difficulty.  There  again  come  in  the 
bothering  time  and  space,  bothering  in  their  relation  to 
heavenly  things,  I  mean.  On  the  Friday,  the  penitent 
thief,  as  you  call  him,  was  to  be  with  Jesus  in  Paradise  ; 
and  nov.  it  was  Sunday,  and  Jesus  said  he  had  not  yet 
been  up  to  see  his  Father.  Some  would 'say,  I  am  too 
literal,  too  curious  ;  what  can  Friday  and  Sunday  have  to 
do  with  Paradise  ?  But  words  viean  in  both  worlds,  for 
they  are  not  two  but  one— surely  at  least  when  Jesus 
thinks  and  speaks  of  them  ;  and  there  can  be  no  wrong 
in  feeling  ever  so  blindly  and  dully  after  what  they  mean. 
Such  humble  questioning  can  do  no  harm,  even  if,  in 
the  face  of  the  facts,  the  questions  be  as  far  off  and  silly 
— in  the  old  sweet  meaning  of  the  word — as  those  of 
any  infant  concerning  a  world  he  has  not  proved.— But 
about  Mary  Magdalene  :  He  must  have  said  the  word 
Touch  ma  not.  That  could  not  have  crept  in.  It  is  too 
hard  for  an  interpolation,  I  think  ;  and  if  no  interpola- 
tion, it  must  mean  some  deep  good  thing  we  don't  un- 
derstand. One  thing  we  can  make  sure  of:  it  was 
nothing  that  should  hurt  her ;  for  see  what  follows. 
But  for  that,  when  he  said  Touch  me  not,  for  I  am  not  yet 
ascended  to  my  Father,  she  might  have  thought — '  Ah  ! 
thou  hast  thy  Father  to  go  to  nnd  thou  will  leave  us  for 
h\m:--But,  he  went  on,  go  to  my  brethren  and  say  unto 


HOW  JESUS   SPOKE   TO    WOMEN.  555 

them  :  I  ascetid  unto  my  Father,  AND  YOUR  father  ;  AND 
MY  GOD  AND  YOUR  GOD.  What  more  could  she  want  ? 
Think  :  the  Father  of  Jesus,  with  whom,  in  all  his 
knowledge  and  all  his  suffering,  the  grand  heart  was 
perfectly,  exultingly  satisfied, — that  Father  he  calls  our 
Father  too.  He  shares  with  his  brethren — of  his  best, 
his  deepest,  his  heartiest,  most  secret  delight,  and 
makes  it  their  and  his  most  open  joy:  he  shares  his 
eternal  Father  with  us,  his  perfect  God  with  his  breth- 
ren. And  whatever  his  not  having  ascended  to  him 
ma)'-  mean,  we  see,  with  marvel  and  joy,  that  what  delayed 
him — even  though,  for  some  reason  perfect  in  tender- 
ness as  in  truth,  he  would  not  be  touched— was  love  to 
Maiy  Magdalene  and  his  mother  and  his  brethren.  He 
could  not  go  to  the  Father  without  comforting  them 
first.  And  certainly  whatever  she  took  the  Touch  menot 
(o  meaner  point  at,  it  was  nothing  that  hurt  her.— It  just 
strikes  me — is  it  possible  he  said  it  in  order  to  turn  the 
overwhelming  passion  of  her  joy,  which  after  such  a  re- 
storation would  have  clung  more  than  ever  to  the  visible 
presence,  and  would  be  ready  to  suffer  the  pains  of 
death  yet  again  when  he  parted  from  her— might  it  be 
.to  turn  that  torrent  into  the  wider  and  ever  widening 
channel  cf  joy  in  his  everlasting  presence  to  the  inner- 
lost  being,  his  communion,  heart  to  heart,  with  every 
.  hild  of  his  Father  ?  In  our  poor  weakness  a-nd  narrow- 
ness and  self-love,  even  of  Jesus  the  bodily  may  block 
out  the  spiritual  nearness,  which,  however  in  most 
moods  we  may  be  unable  to  realize  the  fact,  is  and  re- 
mains a  thing  unutterably  lovelier  and  better  and  dearer— 


556  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

enhancing  tenfold  what  vision  of  a  bodily  presence  may 
at  some  time  be  granted  us.  But  how  any  woman  can 
help  casting  herself  heart  and  soul  at  the  teet  of  such  a 
lowly  grandeur,  such  a  tender  majesty,  such  a  self-dissolv- 
ing perfection — I  can  not  imagine.  The  truth  must  be 
that  those  who  kneel  not  have  not  seen.  You  do  not 
once  read  of  a  woman  being  against  him — except  indeed 
it  was  his  own  mother,  when  she  thought  he  was  going  all 
astray  and  forgetting  his  high  mission.  The  divine  love 
in  him  towards  his  Father  in  heaven  and  his  brethren 
of  men,  was  ever  melting  down  his  conscious  individu- 
ality in  sweetest  showers  upon  individual  hearts  ;  he 
came  down  like  rain  upon  the  mown  grass,  like  showers 
that  water  the  earth.  No  woman,  no  man  surel}'-  ever 
saw  him  as  he  was  and  did  not  worship  !" 

Helen  turned  and  glided   back  into  the  house,  and 
neither  knew  she  had  been  there 


CHAPTER     LXXXIV. 


DELIVERANCE. 


LL  that  could  be  done  for  Leopold  by  tender- 
est  sisterly  care  under  the  supervision  of  Mr. 
Faber,  who  believed  in  medicine  less  than  in 
good  nursing,  was  well  supplemented  by  the 
brotherly  ministrations  of  Wingfold,  who  gave  all  the 
time  he  could  honestly  spare  from  his  ordinary  work  to 
soothe  and  enlighten  the  suffering  youth.  But  it  be- 
came clearer  every  week  that  nothing  would  avail  to 
entice  the  torn  roots  of  his  being  to  clasp  again  the  soil 
of  the  world  :  he  was  withering  away  out  of  it.  Ere 
long  S3'mptoms  appeared  which  no  one  could  well  mis- 
take, and  Lingard  himself  knew  that  he  was  dying. 
Wingfold  had  dreaded  that  his  discovery  of  the  fact 
might  reveal  that  he  had  imagined  some  atonement  in 
the  public  confession  he  desired  to  make,  and  that, 
when  he  found  it  denied  him,  he  would  fall  back  into 
despair.  But  he  was  with  him  at  the  moment,  and  his 
bearing  left  no  ground  for  anxiety.    A  gleam  of  glad- 


558  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

ness  from  below  the  horizon  of  his  spirit,  shot  up,  like 
the  aurora  of  a  heavenly  morning,  over  the  sky  of  his 
countenance.  He  glanced  at  his  friend,  smiled,  and 
said, 

"  It  has  killed  me  too,  and  that  is  a  comfort." 

The  curate  only  looked  his  reply. 

"  They  say,"  resumed  Leopold,  after  a  while,  "  that 
God  takes  the  will  for  the  deed  : — do  you  think  so  ?" 

"Certainly,  if  it  be  a  true  genuine  will." 

"  I  am  sure  I  meant  to  give  myself  up,"  said  Leopold. 
"  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  they  were  fooling  me. 
I  know  it  now,  but  what  can  I  do  ?  I  am  so  weak,  I 
should  only  die  on  the  way." 

He  tried  to  rise,  but  fell  back  in  the  chair. 

"  Oh  !"  he  sighed,  "  isn't  it  good  of  God  to  let  me 
die  !  Who  knows  what  he  may  do  for  me  on  the  other 
side  !  Who  can  tell  what  the  bounty  of  a  God  like  Je- 
sus may  be  !" 

A  vision  rose  before  the  mind's  eye  of  the  curate  : — 
Emmeline  kneeling  for  Leopold's  forgiveness-;  but  he 
wisely  held  his  peace.  The  comfort  of  the  sinner  must 
come  from  the  forgiveness  of  God,  not  from  the  favor- 
able judgment  of  man  mitigating  the  harshness  of  his 
judgment  of  himself.  Wingfold's  business  was  to 
start  him  well  in  the  world  whither  he  was  gcing.  He 
must  fill  his  scrip  with  the  only  wealth  that  would  not 
dissolve  in  the  waters  of  the  river — that  was,  the  know- 
ledge of  Jesus. 

It  shot  a  terrible  pang  to  the  heart  of  Helen,  herself, 
for  ^jl  her  suffering,  so  fujl  of  life,  when  sbe  learned 


DELIVERANCE.  559 


that  her  darling  must  die.  Yet  was  there  no  small  con- 
solation mingled  with  the  shock.  Fear  vanished,  and 
love  returned  with  grief  in  twofold  strength.  She  flew  to 
him,  and  she  who  had  been  so  self-contained,  so  com- 
posed, so  unsubmissive  to  any  swaj^  of  feeling,  broke  into 
such  a  storm  of  passionate  affection,  that  the  vexilla  mortis 
answered  from  his  bosom,  flaunting  themselves  in  crim- 
son before  her  eyes.  In  vain,  for  Leopold's  sake,  the 
curate  had  sought  to  quiet  her :  she  had  resented  his 
interference  ;  but  this  result  of  her  impetuosity  speedily 
brought  her  to  her  senses,  and  set  her  to  subdue  her- 
self. 

The  same  evening  Leopold  insisted  on  dictating  to 
the  curate  his  confession,  which  done,  he  signed  it, 
making  him  and  Helen  attest  the  signature.  This  doc- 
ument Wingfold  took  charge  of,  promising  to  make 
the  right  use  of  it,  whatever  he  should  on  reflection  con- 
clude that  to  be  ;  after  which  Leopold's  mind  seemed  at 
ease. 

His  sufferings*  from  cough  and  weakness  and  fever 
now  augmented  with  greater  rapidity,  but  it  was  plain 
from  the  kind  of  light  in  his  eye,  and  the  far-look 
which  was  yet  not  retrospective,  that  hope  and  expecta- 
tion were  high  in  him.  He  had  his  times  of  gloom, 
when  the  dragon  of  the  past  crept  out  of  its  cave,  and 
tore  him  afresh  ;  but  the  prospect  of  coming  deliver- 
ance strengthened  him. 

"  Do  you  really  think,"  he  said  once  to  the  curate, 
"that  1  shall  ever  see  Emmeline  again  }" 

"Truly  I  hope  so,"  answered  his  friend,  "and  could 


560  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

argue  upon  the  point.  But  I  think  the  best  way,  when 
doubt  comes  as  to  any  thing  you  would  hke  to  be 
true,  is  just  to  hide  yourself  in  God,  as  the  child  would 
hide  from  the  dark  in  the  folds  of  his  mother's  man- 
tle." 

"  But  aunt  would  say,  if  she  knew,  that,  dying  as  she 
did,  Emmeline  could  not  be  saved." 

"  Some  people  may  have  to  be  a  good  deal  astonished 
as  to  what  can  and  can  not  be,"  returned  the  curate. 
"  But  never  mind  what  people  say  :  make  your  appeal 
to  the  Saviour  of  men  about  whatever  troubles  you. 
Cry  to  the  faithful  creator,  his  Father.  To  be  a  faithful 
creator  needs  a  might  of  truth  and  loving  kindness  of 
which  our  narrow  hearts  can  ill  conceive.  Ask  much 
of  God,  my  boy,  and  be  very  humble  and  very  hoping." 

After  all  such  utterances,  Leopold  would  look  his 
thanks,  and  hold  his  peace. 

"  I  wish  it  was  over,"  he  said  once. 

"So  do  I,"  returned  the  curate.  "But  be  of  good 
courage.  I  think  nothing  will  be  given  you  to  bear 
that  you  will  not  be  able  to  bear." 

"  I  can  bear  a  great  deal  more  than  I  have  had  yet.  I 
don't  think  I  shall  ever  complain.  That  would  be  to 
take  myself  out  of  his  hands,  and  I  have  no  hope  any- 
where else. — Are  you  any  surer  about  him,  sir,  than 
you  used  to  be  ?" 

"At  least  I  hope  in  him  far  more,"  answered  Wing- 
lold. 

"  Is  that  enough  ?" 

"  No,  I  want  more." 


DELIVERANCE.  561 


"  I  wish  I  could  come  back  and  tell  you  that  I  am 
alive  and  all  is  true." 

"  I  would  rather  have  the  natural  way  of  it,  and  get 
the  good  of  not  knowing  first." 

"  But  if  I  could  tell  you  1  had  found  God  then  that 
would  make  5'ou  sure." 

Wingfold  could  not  help  a  smile  : — as  if  any  assur- 
ance from  such  a  simple  soul  could  reach  the  questions 
that  tossed  his  troubled  spirit  ! 

"  I  think  I  shall  find  all  I  want  in  Jesus  Christ,"  he 
said. 

"  But  you  can't  see  him,  you  know." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  do  better.  And  at  all  events  I  can 
wait,"  said  the  curate.  "  Even  if  he  would  let  me,  I 
would  not  see  him  one  moment  before  he  thought  it 
best.  I  would  not  be  out  of  a  doubt  or  difficulty  an 
hour  sooner  than  he  would  take  me." 

Leopold  gazed  at  him  and  said  no  more. 


CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

THE    MEADOW. 

S  the  disease  advanced,  his  desire  for  fresh  air 
and  freedom  grew  to  a  great  longing.  One 
hot  day,  whose  ardors,  too  strong  for  the 
leaves  whose  springs  had  begun  to  dry  up, 
were  burning  them. "yellow  and  black  and  pale  and 
hectic  red,"  the  fancy  seized  him  to  get  out  of  the  gar- 
den with  its  dipt  box-trees  and  cypresses,  into  the 
meadow  beyond.  There  a  red  cow  was  switching  her 
tail  as  she  gathered  her  milk  from  the  world,  and  look- 
ing as  if  all  were  well.  He  liked  the  look  of  the  cow, 
and  the  open  meadow,  and  wanted  to  share  it  with  her 
he  said.  Helen,  with  the  anxiety  of  a  careful  nurse, 
feared  it  might  hurt  him. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?"  he  returned.  "  Is  life  so 
sweet  that  every  moment  more  of  it  is  a  precious  boon  ? 
After  I'm  gone  a  few  days,  you  won't  know  a  week 
from  an  hour  of  me.  What  a  weight  it  will  be  oflF  you  ! 
I  envy  you  all  the  relief  of  it.  It  will  be  to  you  just 
what  it  would  be  to  me  to  get  into  that  meadow." 

Helen  made  haste  to  let  him  have  his  will.     They 


THE   MEADOW.  563 


prepared  a  sort  of  litter,  and  the  curate  and  the  coach- 
man carried  him.  Hearing  what  they  were  about,  Mrs. 
Ramshorn  hurried  into  the  garden  to  protest,  but  pro- 
tested in  vain,  and  joined  the  httle  procession,  walking 
with  Helen,  like  a  second  mourner,  after  the  bier. 
They  crossed  the  lawn,  and  through  a  double  row  of 
small  cypresses  went  winding  down  to  the  underground 
passage,  as  if  to  the  tomb  itself.  They  had  not  thought 
of  opening  the  door  first,  and  the  place  was  dark  and 
sepulchral.     Helen  hastened  to  set  it  wide. 

"  Lay  me  down  for  a  moment,"  said  Leopold. 
" — Here  I  lie  in  my  tomb  !  How  soft  and  brown  the 
li^ht  is  !  I  should  not  mind  lying  here,  half-asleep,  half- 
awake,  for  centuries,  if  only  1  had  the  hope  of  a  right 
good  waking  at  last." 

A  flood  of  fair  light  flashed  in  sweet  torrent  into  the 
place— and  there,  framed  in  the  doorway,  but  far  across 
the  green  field,  stood  the  red  cow,  switching  her  tail. 

"And  here  comes  my  resurrection!"  cried  Leopold. 
"  I  have  not  had  long  to  wait  for  it — have  I  7" 

Hg  smiled  a  pained  content  as  he  spoke,  and  they 
borcJ  him.  out  into  the  sun  and  air.  They  set  him  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  field  in  a  low  chair — not  far  from  a 
small  clump  of  trees,  through  which  the  footpath  led  to 
the  stile  whereon  the  curate  was  seated  when  first  he 
saw  the  Polwarths.  Mrs.  Ramshorn  foynd  the  fancy  of 
the  sick  man  pleasant  for  the  hale,  and  sent  for  her 
knitting.  Helen  sat  down  empty-handed  on  the  wool  at 
her  brother's  feet,  and  Wingfold,  taking  a  book  from 
his  pocket,  withdrew  to  the  trees. 


564  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

He  had  not  read  long,  sitting  within  sight  and  call  of 
the  group,  when  Helen  came  to  him. 

"  He  seems  inclined  to  go  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "  Per- 
haps if  you  would  read  something,  it  would  send  him 
off." 

"  I  will  with  pleasure,"  he  said,  and  returning  with 
her,  sat  down  on  the  grass. 

"  May  I  read  you  a  few  verses  I  came  upon  the  other 
day,  Leopold  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Please  do,"  answered  the  invalid,  rather  sleepily. 

I  will  not  pledge  myself  that  the  verses  belonged  to 
the  book  Wingfold  held  before  him,  but  here  they  are. 
He  read  them  slowly,  and  as  evenly  and  softly  and 
rhythmically  as  he  could. 


They  come  to  thee,  the  halt,  the  maimed,  the  blind, 

The  devil-torn,  the  sick,  the  sore  ; 
Thy  heart  their  well  of  life  they  find, 

Thine  ear  their  open  door. 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  joy  in  Palestine — 
What  smiles  and  tears  of  rescued  throngs  ! 

Their  lees  of  life  were  turned  to  wine. 
Their  prayers  to  shouts  and  songs  ! 

The  story  dear  our  wise  men  fable  call, 

Give  paltry  facts  the  mighty  range  ; 
To  me  it  seems  just  what  should  fall, 

And  nothing  very  strange. 


THE   MEADOW.  565 


But  were  I  deaf  and  lame  and  blind  and  sore, 
I  scarce  would  care  I'or  cure  to  ask  ; 

Another  prayer  should  haunt  thy  door — 
Set  thee  a  liarder  task. 

If  thou  art  Christ,  see  here  ihis  heart  of  mine, 
Torn,  empty,  moaning,  and  unblcst ! 

Had  ever  heart  more  need  uf  thine, 
If  thine  indeed  hath  rcsi  ? 

Thy  word,  thy  hand  ri^^ht  soon  uid  scare  the  bane 
That  in  their  bodies  death  did  breed  ; 

If  thou  canst  cure  my  deeper  pain, 
Then  art  thou  Lord  indeed. 

X-eopold  smiled  sleepily  as  V/ir.gfold  read,  and  ere  the 
reading  was  over,  J^lept. 

"  What  can  the  little  object  want  here  ?"  said  Mrs. 
Ramshorn. 

Wingfold  looked  up  and  seeing  who  it  was  approach- 
ing then^,  said, 

"Oh!  that  '.s  Mr.  Polwarth,  who  keeps  the  park- 
gate." 

"  Nobody  can  well  mistake  him,"  returned  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn.    "  Everybody  knows  the  creature." 

"  Few  people  know  him  really,"  said  Wingfold. 

"  I  /lave  heard  that  he  is  an  oddity  in  mind  as  well  as 
in  body,"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn. 

"  He  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  rejoined  the  curate.  "I 
will  go  and  meet  hiai.  He  wants  to  know  how  Leopold 
is." 


566  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


"  Pray  keep  your  seat,  Mr.  Wingfold.  I  don't  in  the 
lca;5t  mind  him,"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn.  "  Any  friend  of 
yours,  as  you  are  kind  enough  to  call  him,  will  be  wel- 
come. Clergymen  come  to  know — indeed  it  is  their 
duty  to  be  acquainted  with  all  sorts  of  people.  The  lata 
Dean  of  Hah'^stone  would  stop  and  speak  to  a  pauper." 

The  curate  did  however  go  and  meet  Polwarth,  and 
returning  with  him  presented  him  to  Mrs.  Ramshorn, 
who  received  him  with  perfect  condescension,  and  a 
most  gracious  bow.  Helen  bent  her  head  aiso,  very 
differently,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  say  how.  The  little 
man  turned  from  them,  and  for  a  moment  stood  look- 
ing on  the  face  of  the  sleeping  youth  :  he  had  not  seen 
him  since  Helen  ordered  him  to  leave  the  house.  Even 
now  she  looked  angry  at  his  presumption  in  staring  at 
her  brother.  But  Polwarth  did  not  see  her  look.  A 
great  tenderriess  came  over  his  face,  and  his  lips 
moved  softly.  "The  lord  of  thy  life  keep  it  for  thee, 
my  son  !"  he  murmured,  gazed  a  moment  longer,  then 
rejoined  Wingfold.  They  v/alked  aside  a  few  paces  and 
seated  themselves  on  the  grass. 

"  Pray  be  seated,"  said  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  without  look- 
ing'up  from  her  knitting — the  seat  she  offered  being 
the  wide  meadow. 

But  they  had  already  done  so,  and  presently  were 
deep  in  a  gentle  talk,  of  which  at  length  certain  words 
that  had  been  foolhardy  enough  to  wander  within  her 
range,  attracted  the  notice  of  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  and  she 
began  to  listen.     But  she  could  not  hear  distinctly. 

•'  There  should  be  one  bishop  at  least,"  the  little  man 


THE    MEADOW.  567 


was  saying,  "  or  I  don't  know  but  he  ought  to  be  the 
arch-archbishup, — a  poor  man,  if  possible, — one  like  the 
country  parson  Chaucer  sets  up  in  contrast  with  the 
regular  clergy, — whose  main  business  should  be  to  travel 
about  from  university  to  university,  from  college  to 
college,  from  school  to  school,  warning  off  a!l  young 
men  who  did  not  know  within  themselves  that  it  was 
neither  for  position,  nor  income,  nor  study,  nor  influ- 
ence, that  they  sought  to  minister  in  the  temple,  from 
entering  the  church.  As  from  holy  ground,  he  would 
warn  them  off." 

Mrs.  Ramshorn  fancied,  from  certain  obscure  associa- 
tions in  her  own  mind,  that  he  was  speaking  of  dissent- 
ing ministers  and  persons  of  low  origin,  who  might  wish 
to  enter  the  church  for  the  sake  of  bettering  themselves, 
and,  holding  as  she  did  that  no  church  preferment 
should  be  obtained  except  by  persons  of  good  family 
and  position,  qualified  to  keep  up  the  dignity  of  the 
profession,  she  was  not  a  little  gratified  to  hear,  as  she 
supposed,  the  same  sentiments  from  the  mouth  of  such 
an  illiterate  person  as,  taking  no  note  of  his  somewhat 
remarkable  utterance,  she  imagined  Polwarth  to  be. 
Therefore  she  proceeded  to  patronize  him  yet  a  little 
farther. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  she  said  graciously. 
"  None  but  such  as  you  describe  should  presume  to  set 
foot  within  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  profession." 

Polwarth  did  not  much  relish  Mrs.  Ramshorn's  style, 
and  was  considerably  surprised  at  receiving  such  a 
hearty  approval  of  a  proposed  reformation  in  clerical 


568  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


things,  reaching  even  to  the  archiepiscopal,  which  he 
had  put  half-humorously,  and  yet  in  thorough  earnest, 
for  the  ear  of  Wingfold  only.  He  was  Httle  enough  de- 
sirous of  pursuing  the  conversation  with  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn  :  Charity  herself  does  not  require  of  a  man  to  cast 
his  precious  things  at  the  feet  of  my  lady  Disdain  ;  but 
he  must  reply. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the  great  evil  in  the  church  has  al- 
ways been  the  presence  in  it  of  persons  unsuited  for 
the  work  there  required  of  them.  One  very  simple 
sifting  rule  would  be,  that  no  one  should  be  admitted  to 
holy  orders  who  had  not  first  proved  himself  capable 
of  making  a  better  living  in  some  other  calling." 

"  I  can  not  go  with  you  so  far  as  that — so  few  careers 
are  open  to  gentlemen,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Ramshorn. 
"  Besides — take  the  bar  for  instance  :  the  forensic  style 
a  man  must  there  acquire  would  hardly  become  the 
pulpit,  But  it  would  not  be  a  bad  rule  that  every  one, 
for  admission  to  holy  orders,  should  be  possessed  of 
property  sufficient  at  least  to  live  upon.  With  that  for 
a  foundation,  his  living  would  begin  at  once  to  tell,  and 
he  would  immediately  occupy  the  superior  position 
every  clergyman  ought  to  have.'' 

"  What  I  was  thinking  of,"  said  Polwarth,  "was  main- 
ly the  experience  in  life  he  would  gather  by  having  to 
make  his  own  living  ;  that,  behind  the  counter  or  the 
plough,  or  in  the  workshop,  he  would  come  to  know 
men  and  their  struggles  and  their  thoughts — " 

"Good  heavens  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ramshorn.  "  But 
I  must  be  under  some  misapprehension  !     It  is  not  pos- 


THE   MEADOW.  569 


sible  that  5^ou  can  be  speaking  of  the  cJmrch — of  the 
clerical  profession.  The  moment  that  is  brought  within 
the  reach  of  such  people  as  you  describe,  that  moment 
the  church  sinks  to  the  level  of  the  catholic  priesthood." 

"  Say,  rather,  to  the  level  of  Jeremy  Taylor,"  re- 
turned Polwarth,  "  who  was  the  son  of  a  barber  ;  or  of 
Tillotson,  who  was  the  son  of  a  clothier,  or  something 
of  the  sort,  and  certainly  a  fierce  dissenter.  His  ene- 
mies said  the  archbishop  himself  was  never  baptized. 
B}'-  the  way,  he  was  not  ordained  till  he  was  thirty — 
and  that  bears  on  what  I  was  just  saying  to  Mr.  Wing- 
fold,  that  I  would  have  no  one  ordained  till  after  forty, 
by  which  time  he  would  know  whether  he  had  any  real 
call  or  only  a  temptation  to  the  church,  from  the  base 
hope  of  an  easy  living." 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Ramshorn  had  had  more  than 
enough  of  it.  The  man  was  a  leveller,  a  chartist,  a 
positivist — a  despiser  of  dignities  I 

"  Mr. Mr. I  don't  know  your  name — you  will 

oblige  me  by  uttering  no  more  such  vile  slanders  in  my 
company.  You  are  talking  about  what  you  do  not  in 
the  least  understand.  The  man  who  does  not  respect  the 
religion  of  his  native  country  is  capable  of — af — of  any- 
thing.— I  am  astonished,  Mr.  Wing  fold,  at  your  allowing', 
a  member  of  your  congregation  to  speak  with  so  little 
regard  for  the  feelings  of  the  clergy.  You  forget,  sir, 
when  you  attribute  what  you  call  base  motives  to  the 
cloth — you  forget  who  said  the  laborer  was  worthy  of 
his  hire." 

"  I  hope  not,  madam      I  only  venture  to  suggest  that 


570  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

though  the  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,  not  every  man 
is  worthy  of  the  labor." 

Wingfold  was  highly  amused  at  »the  turn  things  had 
taken.  Polwarth  looked  annoyed  at  ha\;ing  allowed 
himself  to  be  beguiled  into  such  an  utterly  useless  beat- 
ing of  the  air. 

•'  My  friend  has  some  rather  peculiar  notions,  Mrs. 
Ramshorn,"  said  the  curate  ;  "  but  you  must  admit  that 
it  was  your  approval  that  encouraged  him  to  go  on." 

"  It  is  quite  as  well  to  know  what  people  think,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Ramshorn,  pretending  she  had  drawn 
him  out  from  suspicion.  "  My  husband  used  to  say 
that  very  few  of  the  clergy  had  any  notion  of  the  envy 
and  opposition  of  the  lower  orders,  both  to  them  per- 
sonally, and  the  doctrines  they  taught.  To  low  human 
nature  the  truth  has  always  been  unpalatable." 

What  precisely  she  meant  by  the  truth  it  would  be 
hard  to  say,  but  if  the  visual  embodiment  of  it  was  not 
a  departed  dean,  it  was  at  least  always  associated  in  her 
mind  with  a  cathedral  choir,  and  a  portly  person  in  silk 
stockings. 

Here  happily  Leopold  woke,  and  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  gate-keeper. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Polwarth  !  I  am  so  glad  to  see  3^ou  !"  he 
said.  "  I  am  getting  on,  you  see.  It  will  be  over 
soon." 

"  I  see,"  replied  Polwarth,  going  up  to  him,  and 
taking  his  offered  hand  in  both  his.  "  I  could  al- 
most envy  you  for  having  got  so  near  the  end  of  your 
troubles." 


THE   MEADOW.  571 


"Are  you  sure  it  will  be  the  end  of  them,  sir?" 

*'  Of  some  of  them  at  least,  I  hope,  and  those  the 
worst.  I  can  not  be  sure  of  anything  but  that  all 
things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love 
God." 

"  I  don't  know  yet  whether  I  do  love  God." 

"  Not  the  Father  of  Jesus  Christ  .^" 

"  If  God  is  really  just  like  him,  I  don't  see  how  any 
man  could  help  loving  him.  But,  do  you  know?  I  am 
terrified  sometimes  at  the  thought  of  seeing  my  father. 
He  was  such  a  severe  man  !  I  am  afraid  he  will  scorn 
me." 

"  Never — if  he  has  got  into  heavenly  ways.  And  you 
have  your  mother  there  too,  have  you  not  .''" 

"  Oh  !  yes;  I  did  not  think  of  that.  I  don't  remem- 
ber much  of  her." 

"  Any  how  you  have  God  there,  and  you  must  rest 
in  him.  He  will  not  forget  you,  fcr  that  would  be 
ceasing  to  be  God.  If  God  were  to  forget  for  one  mo- 
ment, the  universe  would  grow  black — vanish — rush 
out  again  from  the  realm  of  law  and  order  into  chaos 
and  night." 

"  But  I  have  been  wicked." 

"  The  more  need  you  have,  if  possible,  of  your  Father 
in  heaven." 

Here  Mrs.  Ramshorn  beckoned  the  attendance  of  the 
curate  where  she  sat  a  few  yards  off  on  the  other  side 
of  Leopold.  She  was  a  little  ashamed  of  having  conde- 
scended to  lose  her  temper,  and  when  the  curate  went 
up  to  her,  said,  with  an  attempt  at  gaiety  : 


572  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  Is  your  odd  little  friend,  as  you  call  him,  all ?" 

And  she  tapped  her  lace  cap  carefully  with  her  finger. 

"  Rather  more  so  than  most  people,"  answered  Wing- 
fold.     "  He  is  a  very  remarkable  man." 

"  He  speaks  as  if  he  had  seen  better  days — though 
where  he  can  have  gathered  such  detestable  revolution- 
ary notions,  I  can't  think." 

"  He  is  a  man  of  education,  as  you  see,"  said  the 
curate. 

"  You  don't  mean  he  has  been  to  Oxford  or  Cam- 
bridge }" 

"  No.  His  education  has  been  of  a  much  higher  sort 
than  is  generally  found  there.  He  knows  ten  times  as 
much  as  most  universit}"  men." 

"Ah,  yes;  but  that  goes  for  nothing:  he  hasn't  the 
standing.  And  if  he  had  been  to  Oxford,  he  never 
could  have  imbibed  such  notions.  Besides — his  man- 
ners !  To  speak  of  the  clergy  as  he  did  in  the  hearing 
of  one  whose  whole  history  is  bound  up  with  the 
church  !" 

She  meant  herself,  not  Wingfold. 

"  But  of  course,"  she  went  on,  there  must  be  some- 
thing very  wrong  with  him  to  know  so  much  as  you  say, 
and  occupy  such  a  menial  position  !  Nothing  but  agate- 
keeper,  and  talk  like  that  about  bishops  and  what  not ! 
People  that  are  crooked  in  body  are  always  crooked  in 
mind  too.  I  dare  say  now  he  has  quite  a  coterie  of 
friends  and  followers  amongst  the  lower  orders  in  Glas- 
ton.  He's  just  the  sort  of  man  to  lead  the  working 
classes  astray.    No  doubt  he  is  a  very  interesting  study 


THE  MEADOW. 


573 


for  a  young  man  like  you,  but  you  must  take  care  ;  you 
may  be  misunderstood.  A  young  clergyman  cant  be 
too  cautious— if  he  has  any  hope  of  rising  in  his  profes- 
sion.— A  gate-keeper  indeed  !" 

"  Wasn't  it  something  like  that  David  wanted  to  be  ?" 
said  the  curate. 

"  Mr.  Wingfold,  I  never  allow  any  such  foolish  jests 
m  my  hearing.  It  v/as  a  rt'.^^r-keeper  the  Psalmist  said 
— and  to  the  house  of  God,  not  a  nobleman's  park." 

"A  verger,  I  suppose,"  thought  Wingfold. — "Seri- 
ously, Mrs.  Ramshorn,  that  poor  little  atom  of  a  crea- 
ture is  tne  wisest  man  I  know,"  he  said. 

"  Likely  enough,  in  your  judgment,  Mr.  Wmgfold," 
said  the  dean's  widow,  and  drew  herself  up. 

The  curate  accepted  his  dismissal,  and  joined  the  little 
man  by  Leopold's  chair. 

"  I  wish  you  two  could  be  with  me  when  I  am  dying," 
said  Leopold. 

"  If  you  will  let  your  sister  know  your  wish,  you  may 
easily  have  it,"  said  the  curate. 

"  It  will  be  just  like  saying  good-b3'e  at  the  pier-head, 
and  pushing  off  alone — you  can't  get  more  than  one  into 
the  boat — out,  out,  alone,  into  the  infinite  ocean  of — 
nobody  knows  what  or  where,"  said  Leopold. 

"  Except  those  that  are  there  already,  and  they  will 
be  waiting  to  receive  you,"  said  Polwarth.  "  You  may 
well  hope,  if  you  have  friends  to  see  you  off,  you  will 
have  friends  to  welcome  3''ou  too.  But  I  think  it's  not 
so  much  like  setting  off  from  the  pier-head,  as  getting 
down  the  side  of  the  ocean-ship,  to  land  at  the  pier-head. 


574  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

where  your  friends   are  all  standing  looking  out  for 
you." 

"  Well !  I  don't  know  !"  said  Leopold,  with  a  sigh  of 
weariness.  I'm  thankful  sometimes  that  I've  grown 
stupid.  I  suppose  it's  with  dying.  I  didn't  use  to  feel  so. 
Sometimes  I  seem  not  to  know  or  care  any  thing  about 
any  thing.  I  only  want  to  stop  coughing  and  aching 
and  go  to  sleep." 

"  Jesus  was  glad  to  give  up  his  spirit  into  his  Father's 
hands.     He  was  very  tired  before  he  got  away." 

"Thank  you.  Thank  you.  I  have  him.  He  is  some- 
where. You  can't  mention  his  name  but  it  brings  me 
something  to  live  and  hope  for.  If  he  is  there,  all  will 
be  well.  And  if  I  do  get  too  tired  to  care  for  any  thing, 
he  won't  mind ;  he  will  only  let  me  go  to  sleep,  and 
wake  me  up  again  by  and  by  when  I  am  rested." 

He  closed  his  eyes. 
'  "  I  want  to  go  to  bed,"  he  said. 

They  carried  him  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 

RACHEL     AND      LEOPOLD. 

]^^;^/^^  VERY  day  after  this,  so  long  as  the  weather 
}  continued  warm,  it  was  Leopold's  desire  to 
'^  be  carried  out  to  the  meadow.  Once,  at  his 
Ss  earnest  petition,  instead  of  setting  him 
down  in  the  usual  place,  they  went  on  with  him  into 
the  park,  but  he  soon  wished  to  be  taken  back  to  the 
meadow.  He  did  not  like  the  trees  to  come  between 
him  and  his  bed  :  they  made  him  feel  like  a  rabbit  that 
was  too  far  from  its  hole,  he  said ;  and  he  was  never 
tempted  to  try  it  again. 

Regularly  too  every  day,  about  one  o'clock,  the 
gnom.e-like  form  of  the  gate-keeper  would  issue  from 
the  little  door  in  the  park  fence,  and  come  marching 
across  the  grass  towards  Leopold's  chair,  which  was  set 
near  the  small  clump  of  trees  already  mentioned.  The 
curate  was  almost  always  there,  not  talking  much  to  the 
invalid,  but  letting  him  know  every  now  and  then  by 
some  little  attention  or  word,  or  merely  by  showing 
himself,  that  he  was  near.     Sometimes  he  would  take 


576  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

refuge  from  the  heat,  which  the  Indian  never  felt  too 
great,  amongst  the  trees,  and  there  would  generally  be 
thinking  out  what  he  wanted  to  say  to  his  people  the 
next  Sunday.  One  thing  he  found  strange,  and  could 
not  satisfy  himself  concerning,  namely,  that  although 
his  mind  was  so  much  occupied  with  Helen  that  he 
often  seemed  unable  to  think  consecutively  upon  any 
subject,  he  could  always  foresee  his  sermon  best  when, 
seated  behind  one  of  the  trees,  he  could  by  moving  his 
head  see  her  at  work  beside  Leopold's  chair.  But  the 
thing  that  did  carry  him  through  became  plain  enough 
to  him  afterwards  :  his  faith  in  God  was  all  the  time 
growing — and  that  through  what  seemed  at  the  time 
only  a  succession  of  interruptions.  Nothing  is  so  ruin- 
ous to  progress  in  which  effort  is  needful,  as  satisfaction 
with  apparent  achievement ;  that  ever  sounds  a  halt ; 
but  Wingfold's  experience  was  that  no  sooner  did  he 
set  his  foot  on  the  lowest  hillock  of  self-gratulation,  than 
some  fresh  difficulty  came  that  threw  him  prostrate  ; 
and  he  rose  again  only  in  the  strength  of  the  necessity 
for  deepening  and  broadening  his  foundations  that  he 
might  build  yet  higher,  trust  yet  farther :  that  was  the 
only  way  not  to  lose  everything.  He  was  gradually 
learning  that  his  faith  must  be  an  absolute  one,  claiming 
from  God  everything  the  love  of  a  perfect  Father  could 
give,  or  the  needs  he  had  created  in  his  child  could  de- 
sire ;  that  he  must  not  look  to  himself  first  for  help,  or  im- 
agine that  the  divine  was  only  the  supplement  to  the 
weakness  and  failure  of  the  human ;  that  the  highest 
effort  of  the  human  was  to  lay  hold  of  the  divine.     He 


RACHEL   AND    LEOPOLD.  577 

learned  that  he  could  keep  no  simplest  law  in  its  loveli- 
ness until  he  was  possessed  of  the  same  spirit  whence 
-  that  law  sprung  ;  that  he  could  not  even  love  Helen 
aright,  simply,  perfectly,  unselfishly,  except  through  the 
presence  of  the  originating  Love  ;  that  the  one  thing 
wherein  he  might  imitate  the  free  creative  will  of  God 
was,  to  will  the  presence  and  power  of  that  will  which 
gave  birth  to  his.  It  was  the  vital  growth  of  this  faith 
even  when  he  was  too  much  troubled  to  recognize  the 
fact,  that  made  him  strong  in  the  midst  of  weakness  ;  when 
the  son  of  man  cried  out,  Let  this  cup  pass,  the  son  of  God 
in  him  could  yet  cry,  Let  thyw  ill  be  done.  He  could  '  inhab- 
it treinbli?ig'  and  yet  be  brave.  Mrs.  Ramshorn  gene- 
rally came  to  the  meadow  to  see  how  the  invalid  was  after 
he  was  settled,  but  she  seldom  staid  :  she  was  not  fond 
of  nursing,  neither  was  there  any  need  of  her  assistance  ; 
and  as  Helen  never  dreamed  now  of  opposing  the  small- 
est wish  of  her  brother,  there  was  no  longer  any  ob- 
struction to  the  visits  of  Polwarth,  which  were  eagerly 
looked  for  by  Leopold. 

One  day  the  little  man  did  not  appear,  but  soon  after 
his  usual  time  the  still  more  gnome-like  form  of  his  lit- 
tle niece  came  scrambling  rather  than  walking  over  the 
meadow.  Gently  and  modestly,  almost  shyly,  she  came 
up  to  Helen,  made  her  a  courtesy  like  a  village  school- 
girl, and  said  while  she  glanced  at  Leopold  now  and 
then  with  an  ocean  of  tenderness  in  her  laige,  clear  wo- 
man-eyes : 

"  My  uncle  is  sorry.  Miss  Lingard,  that  he  can  not  come 
to  see  your  brother  to-day,  but  he  is  laid  up  ^\ith  an  at 


578  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

tack  of  asthma.  He  wished  Mr.  Lingard  to  know  that 
he  was  thinking  ot  him: — shall  I  tell  you  just  what 
he  said  ?" 

Helen  bent  her  neck  :  she  did  not  feel  much  interest 
in  the  matter.     But  Leopold  said, 

"  Every  word  of  such  a  good  man  is  precious  :  tell  me, 
please." 

Rachel  turned  to  him  with  the  flush  of  a  white  rose 
on  her  face. 

"  I  asked  him,  sir — *  Shall  I  tell  him  you  are  praying 
for  him  ?'  and  he  said,  '  No.  I  am  not  exactly  pray- 
ing for  him  but  I  am  thinking  of  God  and  him  to- 
gether." ' 

The  tears  rose  in  Leopold's  e3^es.  Rachel  lifted  her 
baby-hand  and  stroked  the  dusky  long  fingered  one  that 
lay  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Lingard,"  she  said, — Helen  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  an  embroidery  stitch  and  gave  her  a  look  as 
if  she  were  about  to  ask  for  her  testimonials — "  I  could 
well  wish,  if  it  pleased  God,  that  I  were  as  near  home 
as  you." 

Leopold  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  Do  you  suffer  then  }"  he  asked. 

"  Just  look  at  me,"  she  answered  with  a  smile  that 
was  very  pitiful,  though  she  did  not  mean  it  for  such, 
• — shut  up  all  my  life  in  this  epitome  of  deformity  !  But 
I  ain't  grumbling:  that  would  be  a  fine  thing  I  My 
house  is  not  so  small  but  God  can  get  into  it.  Qnlj 
you  can't  think  how  tired  1  often  am  of  it." 

"Mr.  Wingfold  was  telling  me  yesterday  that  some 


RACHEL   AND    LEOPOLD.  579 

people  fancy  St.  Paul  was  little  and  misshapen,  and  that 
that  was  his  thorn  in  the  flesh." 

"  I  don't  think  that  can  be  true,  or  he  would  never 
have  compared  his  body  to  a  tabernacle,  for,  oh  dear  I 
it  won't  stretch  an  inch  to  give  a  body  room.  I  don't 
think  either,  if  that  had  been  the  case,  he  would  have 
said  he  didn't  want  it  taken  off  but  another  put  over  it. 
I  do  want  mine  taken  off  me,  and  a  downright  good  new 
one  put  on  instead — something  not  quite  so  far  off 
your  sister's  there,  Mr.  Lingard.  But  I'm  ashamed  of 
talking  like  this.  It  came  of  wanting  to  tell  you  I  can't 
be  sorry  you  are  going  when  I  should  so  dearly  like  to 
go  myself." 

"  And  I  would  gladly  stay  awhile,  and  that  in  a  house 
no  bigger  than  yours,  if  I  had  a  conscience  of  the  same 
sort  in  my  back-parlor,"  said  Leopold  smiling.  "  But 
when  I  am  gone  the  world  will  be  the  cleaner  for  it. — Do 
you  know  about  God  the  same  way  your  uncle  does. 
Miss  Polwarth  ?" 

"  I  hope  I  do — a  little.  I  doubt  if  any  body  knows  as 
much  as  he  does,"  she  returned,  very  seriously.  "  But 
God  knows  about  us  all  the  same,  and  he  don't  limit 
his  goodness  to  us  by  our  knowledge  of  him.  It's  so 
wonderful  that  he  can  be  all  to  everybody  !  That  is  his 
Godness,  you  know.  We  can't  be  all  to  any  one  per- 
son. Do  what  we  will,  we  can't  let  any  body  see  into 
us  even.  We  are  all  in  bits  and  spots.  But  I  fancy  it's 
a  sign  that  we  come  of  God  that  we  don't  like  it.  How 
gladly  I  would  help  you,  Mr.  Lingard,  and  I  can  do 
nothing  for  you.— I'm  afraid  your  beautiful  sister  thinks 


580  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

me  very  forward.  But  she  don't  know  what  it  is  to  lie 
awake  all  night  sometimes,  think-thinking  about  my 
beautiful  brothers  and  sisters  that  I  can't  get  near  to 
do  anything  for." 

"What  an  odd  creature!  "  thought  Helen,  to  whom 
her  talk  conveyed  next  to  nothing.  "  But  I  dare  say 
they  are  both  out  of  their  minds.  Poor  things  !  they 
must  have  a  hard  time  of  it  with  one  thing  and 
another !" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  again  for  talking  so  much,"  con- 
cluded Rachel,  and,  with  a  courtesy  first  to  the  one  then 
to  the  other,  walked  away.  Her  gait  was  no  square 
march  like  her  uncle's,  but  a  sort  of  sidelong  propulsion, 
rendered  more  laborious  by  the  thick  grass  of  the 
meadow. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVII. 


THE     BLOOD-HOUND. 


NEED  not  follow  the  steps  by  which  the 
inquiry  office  became  so  far  able  to  enlig^ht- 
en  the  mother  of  Emmeline  concerning  the 
person  and  habits  of  the  visitor  to  the  de- 
seited  shaft,  that  she  had  now  come  to  Glaston  in  pur- 
suit of  yet  farther  discovery  concerning  him.  She  had 
no  plan  in  her  mind,  and  as  yet  merely  intended  going 
to  church  and  everywhere  else  where  people  congre- 
gated, in  the  hope  of  something  turning  up  to  direct 
inquiry.  Not  a  suspicion  of  Leopold  had  ever  crossed 
her.  She  did  not  even  know  that  he  had  a  sister  in 
Glaston,  for  Emmeline's  friends  had  not  all  been  inti- 
mate with  her  parents. 

On  the  morning  after  her  arrival,  she  went  out  early 
to  take  a  walk,  and  brood  over  her  cherished  ven- 
geance ;  and  finding  her  way  into  the  park,  wandered 
about  in  it  for  some  time.  Leaving  it  at  length  by  an- 
other gate,  and  inquiring  the  way  to  Glaston,  she  was 
directed    to  a   footpath    that   would    lead   her   thither 


583  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

across  the  fields.  Following  this  she  came  to  a  stile,  and 
being  rather  weary  with  her  long  walk,  sat  down  on  it. 

The  day  was  a  grand  autumnal  one.  But  nature  had 
no  charms  for  her.  Indeed  had  she  not  been  close 
shut  in  the  gloomy  chamber  of  her  own  thoughts,  she 
would  not  thus  have  walked  abroad  alone  ;  for  nature 
Was  to  her  a  dull,  featureless  void  ;  while  her  past  was 
scarcely  of  the  sort  to  invite  retrospection,  and  her 
future  was  clouded. 

It  so  fell  that  just  then  Leopold  was  asleep  in  his 
chair, — every  morning  he  slept  a  little  soon  after  being 
carried  out, — and  that  chair  was  in  its  usual  place  in  the 
meadow,  with  the  clump  of  trees  between  it  and  the 
stile.  Wingfold  was  seated  in  the  shade  of  the  trees, 
but  Helen,  happening  to  want  something  for  her  work, 
went  to  him  and  committed  her  brother  to  his  care  un- 
til she  should  return,  whereupon  he  took  her  place. 
Almost  the  same  moment,  however,  he  spied  Polwarth 
coming  from  the  little  door  in  the  fence,  and  went  to 
meet  him.  When  he  turned,  he  saw,  to  his  surprise,  a 
lady  standing  beside  the  sleeping  youth,  and  gazing  at 
hini  with  a  strange  intentness.  Polwarth  had  seen  her 
come  from  the  clump  of  trees,  and  supposed  her  a 
friend.  The  curate  walked  hastily  back,  fearing  he 
might  wake  and  be  startled  at  sight  of  the  stranger. 
So  intent  was  the  gazing  lady,  that  he  was  within  a  few 
yards  of  her  before  she  heard  him.  She  started,  gave  one 
glance  at  the  curate,  and  hurried  away  towards  the  town. 
There  was  an  agitation  in  her  movements  that  Wing- 
fold  did  not  like  ;  a  suspicion  crossed  his  mind,  and  he 


THE    BLOOD-HOUND.  583 

resolved  to  follow  her.  In  his  turn  he  made  over  his 
charge  to  Pohvarth,  and  set  off  after  the  lady. 

The  moment  the  eyes  of  Emmeline's  mother  fell 
upon  the  countenance  of  Leopold,  whom,  notwith- 
standing the  change  that  suffering  had  caused,  she 
recognized  at  once,  partly  by  the  peculiarity  of  his  com- 
plexion, the  suspicion,  almost  conviction,  awoke  in  her 
that  here  was  the  murderer  of  her  daughter.  That  he 
looked  so  ill  seemed  only  to  confirm  the  likelihood. 
Her  first  idea  was  to  wake  him  and  see  the  effect  of 
her  sudden  presence.  Finding  he  was  attended,  how- 
ever, she  hurried  away  to  inquire  in  the  town  and  dis- 
cover all  she  could  about  him. 

A  few  moments  after,  Pohvarth  had  taken  charge  of 
him,  and  while  he  stood  looking  on  him  tenderly,  the 
youth  woke  with  a  start.  ' 

"  Where  is  Helen  }"  he  said. 

"  I  have  not  seen  her.     Ah,  here  she  comes  I" 

"  Did  you  find  me  all  alone,  then  }" 

"  Mr.  Wingfold  was  with  you.  He  gave  5''ou  up  to 
me,  because  he  had  to  go  into  the  town." 

He  looked  inquiringly  at  his  sister  as  she  came  up, 
and  she  looked  in  the  same  way  at  Pohvarth. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  lying  all  alone  in  this  wide 
field,"  said  Leopold,  "  and  as  if  Emmeline  had  been  by 
me,  though  I  didn't  see  her." 

Pohvarth  looked  after  the  two  retiring  forms,  which 
were  now  almost  at  the  end  of  the  meadow,  and  about 
to   issue  on  the   high   road. 

Helen  followed  his  laofc  with  hers.    A  sense  of  dan- 


584  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


ger  seized  her.     She  trembled  and   kept  behind  Leo- 
pold's chair. 

"  Have  you  been  coughing  much  today  ?"  asked  the 
gnte-keeper. 

"  Yes,  a  good  deal — before  I  came  out.  But  it  does 
not  seem  to  do  much  good." 

"  What  good  would  you  have  it  do  ?" 

"  I  mean,  it  doesn't  do  much  to  get  it  over.  O  Mr. 
Polwarth,  I  am  so  tired  !" 

"  Poor  fellow !  I  suppose  it  looks  to  you  as  if  it 
would  never  be  over.  But  all  the  millions  of  the  dead 
have  got  through  it  before  you.  I  don't  know  that 
that  makes  much  difference  to  the  one  who  is  going 
through  it.  And  yet  it  is  a  sort  of  company.  Only, 
the  Lord  of  Life  is  with  you,  and  that  is  real  company, 
even  in  dying,  when  no  one  else  can  be  with  you." 

"  If  I  could  only  feel  he  was  with  me  !" 

"  You  may  feel  his  presence  without  knowing  what 
it  is." 

"  I  hope  it  isn't  wrong  to  wish  it  over,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth y 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  wrong  to  wish  any  thing  you  can 
talk  to  him  about  and  submit  to  his  will.  St.  Paul 
says,  '  In  every  thing  let  your  requests  be  made  known 
unto  God.' " 

"  I  sometimes  feel  as  if  I  would  not  ask  him  for  any- 
thing, but  just  let  him  give  me  what  he  likes." 

"  We  must  not  want  to  be  better  than  is  required  of 
us,  for  that  is  at  once  to  grow  worse." 

"I  don't  quile  understand  you."  ■ 


THE    BLOOD-HOUND.  585 

"Not  to  ask  may  seem  to  you  a  more  submissive  way, 
but  I  don't  think  it  is  so  childlike.  It  seems  to  me  far 
better  to  say,  '  O  Lord,  I  should  like  this  or  that,  but  I 
would  rather  not  have  it  if  thou  dost  not  like  it  also.' 
Such  prayer  brings  us  into  conscious  and  immediate 
relations  with  God.  Remember,  our  thoughts  are  then 
passing  to  him,  sent  by  our  will  into  his  mind.  Our 
Lord  taught  us  to  pray  always  and  not  get  tired  of 
it.  God,  however  poor  creatures  we  may  be,  would 
have  us  talk  to  him,  for  then  he  can  speak  to  us  better 
than  when  we  turn  no  face  to  him." 

"  I  wonder  what  I  shall  do  the  first  thing  when  I  find 
myself  out — out,  I  mean,  in  the  air,  you  know." 

"  It  does  seem  strange  we  should  know  so  little  of 
what  is  in  some  sense  so  near  us  !  that  such  a  thin 
veil  should  be  so  impenetrable  !  I  fancy  the  first  thing 
I  should  do  would  be  to  pray." 

"  Then  you  think  we  shall  pray  there — wherever  it 
is?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  should  go  up  in  prayer  the 
moment  I  got  out  of  this  dungeon  of  a  body.  I  am 
wrong  to  call  it  a  dungeon,  for  it  lies  open  to  God's  fail 
world,  and  the  loveliness  of  the  earth  comes  into  me 
through  eyes  and  ears  just  as  well  as  into  you.  Still  it 
is  a  pleasant  thought  that  it  will  drop  off  me  some  day. 
But  for  prayer— I  think  all  will  pray  there  more  than 
here — in  their  hearts  and  souls,  I  mean." 

"  Then  where  would  be  the  harm  i'f  you  were  to  pray 
for  me  after  I  am  gone  .''" 

*'  Nowhere   that  I  know.     It  were  indeed  a  strange 


586  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


thing  if  I  might  pray  for  you  up  to  the  moment  when 
you  ceased  to  breathe,  and  therewith  an  iron  gate 
closed  between  us,  and  I  could  not  even  reach  you 
through  the  ear  of  the  Father  of  us  both  !  It  is  a 
faithless  doctrine,  for  it  supposes  either  that  those 
parted  from  us  can  do  without  prayer,  the  thing  Jesus 
himself  could  not  do  without,  seeing  it  was  his  highest 
joy,  or  that  God  has  so  parted  those  who  are  in  him  i 

from  these  who  are  not  in  him,  that  there  is  no  longer        / 
any  relation,  even  with  God,  common  to  them.     The       / 
thing  to  me  takes  the  form  of  an  absurdity."  / 

"Ah,  then,  pray  for  me  when  I  am  dying,  and  don't 
be  careful  to  stop  when  you  think  I  am  gone,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth.'' 

"  I  will  remember,"  said  the  little  man. 

And  now  Helen  had  recovered  herself  and  came  and 
took  her  usual  seat  by  her  brother's  side.  She  cast  an 
anxious  glance  now  and  then  into  Polwarth's  face,  but 
dared  not  ask  him  anything. 


CHAPTER  LXXXVIII. 


THE    BLOOD-HOUND    TRAVERSED. 


MMELINE'S  mother  had  not  gone  far  before 
she  became  aware  that  she  was  followed.  It 
was  a  turning  of  the  tables  which  she  did 
not  relish.  As  would  not  have  been  unnat- 
ural, even  had  she  been  at  peace  with  all  the  world,  a 
certain  feeling  of  undefined  terror  came  upon  her  and 
threatened  to  overmaster  her.  It  was  the  more 
oppressive  that  she  did  not  choose  to  turn  and  face  her 
pursuer,  feeling  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  confess  con- 
sciousness of  cause.  The  fate  of  her  daughter,  seldom 
absent  from  her  thoughts,  now  rose  before  her  in  asso- 
iation  with  herself,  and  was  gradually  swelling  uneasi- 
ness into  terror:  who  could  tell  but  this  man  pressing 
on  her  heels  in  the  solitary  meadow,  and  not  the  poor 
youth  who  lay  dying  there  in  the  chair,  and  who  might 
indeed  be  only  another  of  his  victims,  was  the  murder- 
er  of.Emmeline!     Unconsciously  she  accelerated   her 


588  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


pace  until  it  was  almost  a  run,  but  did  not  thereby 
widen,  by  a  single  yard,  the  distance  between  her  and 
the  curate. 

When  she  came  out  on  the  high  road,  she  gave  a 
glance  in  each  direction,  and,  avoiding  the  country, 
made  for  the  houses.  A  short  lane  led  her  into  Pine 
street.  There  she  felt  sale,  the  more  that  it  was 
market-day  and  a  good  many  people  about,  and  slack- 
ened her  pace,  feeling  confident  that  her  pursuer,  wh(j- 
ever  he  was,  would  now  turn  aside.  But  she  was  disap- 
pointed, for,  casting  a  glance  over  her  shoulder,  she 
saw  that  he  still  kept  the  same  distance  behind  her. 
She  saw  also,  in  that  single  look,  that  he  was  well 
known,  for  several  were  saluting  him  at  once.  What 
could  it  mean  }  It  must  be  the  G.  B.  of  the  Temple  ! 
Should  she  stop  and  challenge  his  pursuit.?  The  ob- 
stacle to  this  was  a  certain  sinking  at  the  heart 
accounted  for  by  an  old  memory.  She  must  elude  him 
instead.  But  she  did  not  know  a  single  person  in  the 
place,  or  one  house  where  she  could  seek  refuge. 
There  was  an  hotel  before  her  I  But.  unattended,  heat- 
ed, disordered,  to  all  appearance  disreputable,  what  ac- 
count could  she  give  of  herself  .>  That  she  had  been 
followed  by  some  one  everybody  knew,  and  to  whom 
everybody  would  listen  !  Feebly  debating  thus  with 
herself,  she  hurried  along  the  pavement  of  Pine  Street, 
with  the  Abbey  church  before  her. 

The  footsteps  behind  her  grew  louder  and  quicker, 
the  man  had  made  up  his  mind  and  was  coming  up  with 
her !     He   might   be   mad,  or   ready   to  run  ail  risks  ! 


THE    BLOOD-HOUND   TRAVERSED.  589 


Probably  he  knew  his  hfe  at  stake  through  her  perse- 
verance and  determination. 

On  came  the  footsteps,  for  the  curate  had  indeed 
made  up  his  mind  to  speak  to  her,  and  either  remove 
or  certify  his  apprehensions.  Nearer  yet  and  nearer 
they  came.  Her  courage  and  strength  were  giving 
way  together,  and  she  should  be  at  his  mercy  She 
darted  into  a  shop,  sank  on  a  chair  by  the  counter,  and 
begged  for  a  glass  of  water.  A  young  woman  ran  to 
fetch  it,  while  i»Ir.  Drew  went  up  stairs  for  a  glass  of 
wine.  Returning  with  it  he  came  from  behind  the 
counter,  and  approached  the  lad}'-  where  she  sat  leaning 
her  head  upon  it. 

Meantime  the  curate  also  had  entered  the  shop,  and 
placed  himself  where  he  might,  unseen  by  her,  await 
her  departure,  for  he  could  not  speak  to  her  there.  He 
had  her  full  in  sight  when  Mr.  Drew  went  up  to  her. 

"  Do  me  the  favor,  madam,"  he  said — but  said  no 
more.  For  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the  lady  gave  a 
violent  start,  and  raising  her  head  looked  at  him.  The 
wine-glass  dropped  from  his  hand.  She  gave  a  half- 
choked  cry,  and  sped  from  the  shop. 

The  curate  was  on  the  spring  after  her  when  he  was 
arrested  by  the  look  of  the  draper :  he  stood  fixed 
where  she  had  left  him,  white  and  trembling  as  if  he 
had  seen  a  ghost.  He  went  up  to  him,  and  said  in  a 
whisper : 

"Who  is  she  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Drew,"  answered  the  draper,  and  the  curate 
was  after  her  like  a  greyhound.  ^ 


59©  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

A  little  crowd  of  the  shop-people  gathered  in  conster- 
nation about  their  master. 

"  Pick  up  those  pieces  of  glass,  and  call  Jacob  to 
wipe  the  floor,"  he  said— then  walked  to  the  door,  and 
stood  staring  after  the  curate  as  he  all  but  ran  to  over- 
take the  swiftly  gliding  figure. 

The  woman,  ignorant  that  her  pursuer  was  again 
upon  her  track,  and  hardly  any  longer  knowing  what 
she  did,  hurried  blindly  towards  the  churchyard.  Pres- 
ently the  curate  relaxed  his  speed,  hoping  she  would 
enter  it,  when  he  would  have  her  in  a  fit  place  for  the 
interview  upon  which  he  was,  if  possible,  more  deter- 
mined than  ever,  now  that  he  had  gained  so  unexpected- 
ly such  an  absolute  hold  of  her.  "  She  must  be  Emme- 
line's  mother,"  he  said  to  himself,  " — fit  mother  for 
such  a  daughter."  The  moment  he  caught  sight  of  the 
visage  lifted  from  its  regard  of  the  sleeping  youth,  he 
had  suspected  the  fact.  He  had  not  had  time  to  ana- 
lyze its  expression  but  there  was  something  dreadful  in 
it.    A  bold  question  would  determine  the  suspicion. 

She  entered  the  churchyard,  saw  the  Abbey  door 
open  and  hastened  to  it.  She  was  in  a  state  of  bewil- 
derment and  terror  that  would  have  crazed  a  weaker 
woman.  In  the  porch  she  cast  a  glance  behind  her  : 
there  again  was  her  pursuer  !  She  sprang  into  the 
church.  A  woman  was  dusting  a  pew  not  far  from  the 
door. 

"Who  is  that  coming?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone  and 
with  a  mien  that  appalled  Mrs.  Jenkins.  She  had  but 
to  stretch  her  neck  a  little  to  see  through  the  porch. 


THE   BLOOD-HOUND   TRAVERSED.  59I 

t 

"  Why  it  be  only  the  parson,  ma'am  !"  she  answered. 

"  Then  I  shall  hide  myself,  over  there,  and  you  must 
tell  him  I  went  out  by  that  other  door.  Here's  a  sove- 
reign for  you." 

"  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Jenkins  looking 
wistfully  at  the  sovereign,  which  was  a  great  sum  of 
money  to  a  sexton's  wife  with  children  ;  then  instantly 
going  on  with  her  dusting  ;  "  but  it  ain't  no  use  tryin' 
of  tricks  with  our  parson.  He  ain't  one  of  your  Mol- 
lies. A  man  as  don't  play  no  tricks  with  hisself,  as  I 
v  heerd  a  gentleman  say,  it  ain't  no  use  tryin'  no  tricks 
With  him." 

Almost  while  she  spoke  the  curate  entered.  The 
suppliant  drew  herself  up  and  endeavored  to  look  both 
dignified  and  injured. 

"  Would  3^ou  oblige  me  by  walking  this  way  for  a  mo- 
ment ?"  he  said,  coming  straight  to  her. 

Without  a  word  she  followed  him  a  long  way  up  the 
church,  to  the  stone  screen  which  divided  the  chancel 
from  the  nave.  There  in  sight  of  Mrs.  Jenkins,  but  so 
far  oft  that  she  could  not  hear  a  word  said,  he  asked  her 
to  take  a  seat  on  the  steps  that  led  up  to  the  door,  in 
the  centre  of  the  screen.  Again  she  obeyed,  and  Wing- 
fold  sat  down  near  her. 

"Are  you  Emmeline's  mother?"  he  said. 

The  gasp,  the  expression  of  eye  and  cheek,  the  whole 
startled  response  of  the  woman,  revealed  that  he  had 
struck  the  truth.     But  she  made  no  answer. 

"You  had  better  be  open  with  me,"  he  said,  "for  I 
mean  to  be  very  open  with  you." 


592  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

She  stared  at  him,  but  either  could  not,  or  would  not 
speak.     Probably  it  was  caution,  she  must  hear  more. 

The  curate  was  already  excited,  and  I  fear  now  got  a 
little  angry,  for  the  woman  was  not  pleasant  to  his  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you,"  he  said  "that  the  poor  youth 
whom  your  daughter's  behavior  made  a  murderer 
of—" 

"  She  gave  a  cry,  and  turned  like  ashes.  The  curate 
was  ashamed  of  himself. 

"  It  sounds  cruel,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  the  truth.  I  say 
he  is  now  dying — will  be  gone  after  her  in  a  few  weeks. 
The  same  blow  killed  both,  only  one  has  taken  longer 
to  die.  No  end  can  be  served  by  bringing  him  to  jus- 
tice. Indeed  if  he  were  arrested,  he  would  but  die  on 
the  way  to  prison.  I  have  followed  you  to  persuade  you, 
if  I  can,  to  leave  him  to  his  fate  and  not  urge  it  on.  If 
ever  man  was  sorry,  or  suffered  for  his  crime  — " 

"And  pray  what  is  that  to  me,  sir.^"  cried  the  aveng- 
ing mother,  who,  finding  herself  entreated,  straightway 
became  arrogant.  "  Will  it  give  me  back  my  child  ? 
The  villain  took  her  precious  life  without  giving  her  a 
moment  to  prepare  for  eternity,  and  you  ask  me — her 
mother— to  let  him  go  free  !  I  will  not.  I  have  vowed 
vengeance,  and  I  will  have  it." 

"  Allow  me  to  say  that  if  you  die  in  that  spirit,  you 
will  be  far  worse  prepared  for  eternity  than  I  trust  your 
poor  daughter  was." 

"  What  is  that  to  you  ?  If  T  choose  to  run  the  risk, 
it  is  my  business.  I  tell  you  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if 
the  wretch  is  not  brought  to  the  gallows." 


THE    BLOOD-HOUND   TRAVERSED.  593 

"  But  he  cannot  live  to  reach  it.  The  necessary  pre- 
liminaries would  waste  all  that  is  left  of  his  life.  I  only 
ask  of  you  to  let  him  die  in  what  peace  is  possible  to 
him.  We  must  forgive  our  enemies,  you  know.  But 
indeed  he  is  no  enemy  of  yours." 

"  No  enemy  of  mine  !  The  man  who  murdered  my 
child  no  enemy  of  mine  !  I  am  his  enemy  then,  and 
that  he  shall  find.  If  I  cannot  bring  him  to  the  gallows, 
I  can  at  least  make  every  man  and  woman  in  the  coun- 
try point  the  finger  of  scorn  and  hatred  at  him.  I  can 
bring  him  and  all  his  to  disgrace  and  ruin.  Their  pride 
indeed  !  They  were  far  too  grand  to  visit  me,  but  not 
to  send  a  murderer  into  my  family.  I  am  in  my  rights, 
and  I  will  have  justice.  We  shall  see  if  they  are  too 
grand  to  have  a  nephew  hung  !  My  poor  lovely  inno- 
cent !  I  ivill  have  justice  on  the  foul  villain.  Cringing 
shall  not  turn  me." 

Her  lips  were  white  and  her  teeth  set.  She  rose  with 
the  slow  movement  of  one  whose  intent,  if  it  had  blos- 
somed into  passion,  was  yet  rooted  in  determination, 
and  turned  to  leave  the  church. 

"  It  might  hamper  your  proceedings  a  little,"  said 
Wingfold,  "if  in  the  meantime  a  charge  of  bigamy  were 
brought  against  yourself,  Mrs.  Drew  !" 

Her  back  was  towards  the  curate,  and  for  a  moment 
she  stood  like  another  pillar  of  salt.  Then  she  began  to 
tremble  and  laid  hold  of  the  carved  top  of  a  bench. 
But  her  strength  failed  her  completely  ;  she  sank  on  her 
knees  and  fell  on  the  floor  with  a  deep  moan. 

The   curate  called   Mrs.   Jenkins    and    sent    her  for 


594  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

water.  With  some  difficulty  they  brought  her  to  her- 
self. 

She  rose,  shuddered,  drew  her  shawl  about  her,  and 
said  to  the  woman, 

"  I  am  sorry  to  give  so  much  trouble.  When  does 
the  next  train  start  for  London  ?" 

"  Within  an  hour,"  answered  the  curate.  "  I  will  see 
you  safe  to  it." 

"  Excuse  me  ;  I  prefer  going  alone." 

"  That  I  can  not  permit." 

"  I  must  go  to  my  lodgings  first." 

"  I  will  go  with  you." 

She  cast  on  him  a  look  of  questioning  hate,  yielded, 
and  laid  two  fingers  on  his  offered  arm. 

They  walked  out  of  the  church  together  and  to  the 
cottage  where,  for  privacy,  she  had  lodged.  There  he 
left  her  for  half  an  hour,  and,  yielding  to  her  own  ne- 
cessities and  not  his  entreaties,  she  took  some  re- 
freshment. In  the  glowing  sullenness  of  foiled  re- 
venge, the  smoke  of  which  was  crossed  every  now  and 
then  by  a  flash  of  hate,  she  sat  until  he  returned. 

"  Before  1  go  with  you  to  the  train,"  said  the  curate, 
re-entering,  "  you  must  give  me  your  word  to  leave 
young  Lingard  unmolested.  I  know  my  friend  Mr. 
Drew  has  no  desire  to  trouble  you,  but  I  am  equally 
confident  that  he  will  do  whatever  I  ask  him.  If  you 
will  not  promise  me,  from  the  moment  you  get  into 
the  train  you  shall  be  watched.— Do  you  promise  .?" 

She  was  silent,  with  cold  gleaming  eyes,  for  a  time, 
then  said, 


THE   BLOOD-HOUND   TRAVERSED.  595 

"  How  am  I  to  know  that  this  is  not  a  trick  to  save 
his  Hfe  ?" 

"  You  saw  him  ;  you  could  see  he  is  dying.  I  tell  you 
I  do  not  think  he  can  live  a  month.  His  disease  is 
making  rapid  progress.  He  must  go  with  the  first  of 
the  cold  weather." 

She  could  not  help  believing  him. 

"  I  promise,"  she  said.  "  But  you  are  cruel  to  compel 
a  mother  to  forgive  the  villain  that  stabbed  her  daugh- 
ter to  the  heart." 

"  If  the  poor  lad  were  not  dying  I  should  see  that  he 
gave  himself  up,  as  indeed  he  set  out  to  do  some  weeks 
ago,  but  was  frustrated  by  his  friends.  He  is  dying  for 
love  of  her.  1  believe  1  say  so  with  truth.  Pity  and  love 
and  remorse  and  horror  of  his  deed  have  brought  him 
to  the  state  you  saw  him  in.  To  be  honest  with  you,  he 
might  have  got  better  enough  to  be  tortured  for  a 
while  in  a  madhouse,  for  no  jury  would  have  brought 
him  in  anything  but  insane  at  the  time,  with  the  evi- 
dence  that  would  have  been  adduced  ;  but  in  his  anxie- 
ty to  see  me  one  day — for  his  friends  at  that  time  did 
not  favor  my  visits,  because  I  encouraged  him  to  sur- 
render— he  got  out  of  the  house  alone  to  come  to  me, 
but  fainted  in  the  churchyard,  and  lay  on  the  damp 
earth  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour,  I  fancy,  before  we 
found  him.  Still,  had  it  not  been  for  his  state  of  mind, 
he  might  have  got  over  that,  too. — As  you  hope  to  be 
forgiven,  you  must  forgive  him." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  She  was  a  little  soft- 
ened, and  gave  him  hers. 


596  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"Allow  me  one  word  more,"  said  the  curate,  "and 
then  we  shall  go  :  Our  crimes  are  friends  that  will  hunt 
us  either  to  the  bosom  of  God,  or  the  pit  of  hell." 

She  looked  down,  but  her  look  was  still  sullen  and 
proud. 

The  curate  rose,  took  up  her  bag,  went  with  her  to 
the  station,  got  her  ticket,  and  saw  her  off. 

Then  he  hastened  back  to  Drew  and  told  him  the 
whole  story, 

"  Poor  woman  !"  said  her  husband.  "  But  God  only 
knows  how  much /am  to  blame  for  all  this.  If  I  had 
behaved  better  to  her  she  might  have  never  left  me, 
and  your  poor  young  friend  would  now  be  well  and 
happy." 

•'  Perhaps  consuming  his  soul  to  a  cinder  with  that 
odious  drug,"  said  Wingfold.  "  'Tis  true,  as  Edgar  in 
King  Lear  says  : 

"The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  plague  us  ; 

but  he  takes  our  sins  on  himself,  and  while  he  drives 
them  out  of  us  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  he  will  yet 
make  them  work  his  ends.  He  defeats  our  sins,  makes 
them  prisoners,  forces  them  into  the  service  of  good, 
chains  them  like  galley-slaves  to  the  rowing-benches 
of  the  g<5spel-ship,  or  sets  them  like  ugly  gurgoyles  or 
corbels  or  brackets  in  the  walls  of  his  temples.  No, 
that  last  figure  I  retract.  1  don't  like  it.  It  implies 
their  continuance." 

"  Poor  woman  !"  said  Mr.  Drew  again,  who  for  once 


THE   BLOOD-HOUND   TRAVERSED.  597 

had    been    inattentive   to   the   curate.     "  Well  !    she    is 
sorely  punished,  too." 

"  She  will  be  wors3  punished  yet,"  said  the  curate. 
"  if  I  can  read  the  signs  of  character.  She  is  not  re- 
pentant yet — though  I  did  spy  in  her  just  once  a  touch 
of  softening." 

"  It  is  an  awful  retribution,"  said  the  draper,  '•  and  I 
may  yet  have  to  bear  my  share — God  help  me  !" 

"  I  suspect  it  is  the  weight  of  her  own  crime  that 
makes  her  so  fierce  to  avenge  her  daughter.     I  doubt  if  x, 

anything  makes  one  so  unforgiving  as  guift  unrepented 
of." 

"  Well,  I  must  try  to  find  out  where  she  is,  and  keep 
an  eye  upon  her." 

"  That  will  be  easy  enough.     But  why  ?" 

"  Because,  if,  as  you  think,  there  is  more  evil  in  store 
for  her,  I  may  yet  have  it  in  my  power  to  do  her  some 
service.  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Polwarth  would  call  that 
divine  service,''  he  added  with  one  of  his  sunny  smiles. 

"  Indeed  he  would,"  answered  the  curate. 


CHAPTER    LXXXIX. 


THE      BEDSIDE. 


EORGE  BASCOMBE,  when  he  went  to  Paris, 
had  no  thought  of  deserting  Helen.  He  had 
good  ground  for  fearing  that  it  might  be  ruin- 
ous both  to  Lingard  and  himself  to  under- 
take his  defence.  From  Paris  he  wrote  often  to  Helen, 
and  she  replied — not  so  often,  yet  often  enough  to  sat- 
isfy him  ;  and  as  soon  as  she  was  convinced  that  Leo- 
pold could  not  recover,  she  let  him  know,  whereupon 
he  instantly  began  his  preparations  for  returning. 

Before  he  came,  the  weather  had  changed  once  more. 
It  was  now  cold,  and  the  cold  had  begun  at  once  to  tell 
upon  the  invalid.  There  are  some  natures  to  which 
cold,  moral,  spiritual,  or  physical,  is  lethal,  and  Lin- 
gard's  was  of  this  class.  When  the  dying  leaves  began 
to  shiver  in  the  breath  of  the  coming  winter,  the  very 
brightness  of  the  sun  to  look  gleamy,  and  nature  to  put 
on  the  unfriendly  aspect  of  a  world  not  made  for  living 
in,  but  for  shutting  out — when  all  things  took  the  turn 
of  reminding  man  that  his  life  lay  not  in  them,  Leopold 


THE    BEDSIDE.  599 


began  to  shrink  and  withdraw.  He  could  not  face  the 
ghastly  persistence  of  the  winter,  v/hich  would  come 
let  all  the  souls  of  the  summer-nations  shrink  and  pro- 
test as  they  might :  let  them  creep  shivering  to  Hades  ; 
he  would  have  his  day. 

His  sufferings  were  now  considerable,  but  he  never 
complained.  Restless  and  fevered  and  sick  at  heart,  it 
was  yet  more  from  the  necessity  of  a  lovely  nature  than 
from  any  virtue  of  will  that  he  was  so  easy  to  nurse, 
accepting  so  readily  all  ministrations.  Never  exacting 
and  never  refusing,  he  was  always  gently  grateful,  giv- 
ing a  sort  of  impression  that  he  could  have  been  far  more 
thankful  had  he  not  known  the  object  of  the  kindness- 
es so  unworthy.  Next  to  Wingfold's  and  his  sister's, 
the  face  he  always  welcomed  most  was  that  of  the  gate- 
keeper— indeed  I  ought  hadly  to  say  next  to  theirs  ;  for 
the  curate  was  to  him  as  a  brother,  Polwarth  was  like 
a  father  in  Christ.  He  came  every  day,  and  every  day, 
almost  till  that  of  his  departure,  Leopold  had  some- 
thing to  ask  him  about  or  something  to  tell  him. 

"  I  am  getting  so  stupid,  Mr.  Polwarth  !"  he  said 
once.  "  It  troubles  me  much.  I  don't  seem  to  care  for 
anything  now.  I  don't  want  to  hear  the  New  Testa- 
ment :  I  would  rather  hear  a  child's  story — something 
that  did  not  want  thinking  about.  If  I  am  not  cough- 
ing, I  am  content.  I  could  lie  for  hours  and  hours  and 
never  think  more  than  what  goes  creeping  through  my 
mind  no  faster  than  a  canal  in  Holland.  When  I  am 
coughing, — I  don't  think  about  anything  then  either — 
only  long  for  the  fit  to  be  over  and  let  me  back  again 


6oO  THOMAS   WING  FOLD,    CURATE. 

into  Sleepy  Hollow.  All  my  past  life  seems  to  be  gone 
from  me.  I  don't  care  about  it.  Even  my  crime  looks 
like  som'ething  done  ages  ago.  I  know  it  is  mine,  and 
I  would  rather  it  were  not  mine,  but  it  is  as  if  a  great 
cloud  |iad  come  and  swept  away  the  world  in  which  it 
took  place.  I  am  afraid  sometimes  that  I  am  beginning 
not  to  care  even  about  that.  I  say  to  myself,  I  shall  be 
sorry  again  by  and  by,  but  I  can't  think  about  it  now.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  handed  it  over  to  God  to  lay  down  where 
I  should  find  it  again  when  I  was  able  to  think  and  be 
sorry." 

This  was  a  long  utterance  for  him  to  make,  but  he 
had  spoken  slowly  and  with  frequent  pauses.  Pol- 
warth  did  not  speak  once,  feeling  that  a  dying  man  must 
be  allowed  to  ease  his  mind  after  his  own  fashion,  and 
take  as  much  time  to  it  as  he  pleased.  Helen  and 
Wingfold  both  would  have  told  him  he  must  not 
tire  himself,  but  that  Polwarth  never  did.  The  dying 
should  not  have  their  utterances  checked,  or  the  feel- 
ing of  not  having  finished  forced  upon  them.  They 
will  always  have  plenty  of  the  feeling  without  that. 

A  fit  of  coughing  compelled  him  to  break  off,  and 
when  it  was  over,  he  lay  panting  and  weary,  but  with 
his  large  eyes  questioning  the  face  of  Polwaith.  Then 
the  little  man  spoke. 

'•  He  must  give  us  every  sort  of  opportunity  for 
trusting  him,"  he  said.  "  The  one  he  now  gives  you,  is 
this  dullness  that  has  come  over  you.  Trust  him 
through  it,  submitting  to  it  and  yet  trusting  against  it. 
and  you  get  the  good  of  it.     In  your  present  state  per- 


THE   BEDSIDE.  6oi 


haps  you  can  not  even  try  to  bring  about  by  force  of 
will  any  better  state  of  feeling  or  higher  intellectual 
condition  ;  but  you  can  say  to  God  something  like 
this  :  '  See,  Lord,  I  am  dull  and  stupid,  and  care  for 
nothing  :  take  thou  care  of  everything  for  me,  heart,  and 
mind  and  all.  I  leave  all  to  thee.  Wilt  thou  not  at 
length  draw  me  out  of  this  my  frozen  wintery  state  ? 
Let  me  not  shrink  from  fresh  life  and  thought  and 
duty,  or  be  unready  to  come  out  of  the  shell  of  my 
sickness  when  thou  sendest  for  me.  1  wait  thy  will.  I 
wait  even  the  light  that  I  feel  now  as  if  I  dared  not  en- 
counter for  weariness  of  body  and  faintness  of  spirit.'  " 
"Ah  I"  cried  Leopold,  "there  you  have  touched  it! 
How  can  you  know  so  well  what  I  feel  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  often  had  to  fight  hard  to  keep 
death  to  his  own  province  and  not  let  him  cross  over 
into  my  spirit." 

"  Alas  !  I  am  not  fighting  at  all  ;  I  am  only  letting 
things  go." 

"  You  are  fighting  more  than  you  know,  I  suspect, 
for  you  are  enduring,  and  that  patiently.  Suppose 
Jesus  were  to  knock  at  the  door  now,  and  it  was 
locked  ;  suppose  you  knew  it  was  he,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  the  room  to  open  it  for  him  ;  suppose  you  were 
as  weak  as  you  are  now,  and  seemed  to  care  as  little 
about  him  or  anything  else  :  what  would  you  do  ?" 

Leopold  looked  half  amazed,  as  if  wondering  what  his 
friend  could  be  driving  at  with  such  a  question. 

"  What  else  could  I  do  but  get  up  and  open  it  ?"  he 
said. 


6o2  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  Would  you  not  be  tempted  to  lie  still  and  wait  till 
some  one  came  ?" 

'•No." 

"  Would  you  not  say  in  your  heart,  'The  Lord  knows 
I  am  very  weak,  and  I  should  catch  cold,  and  the  exer- 
tion would  make  me  cough  dreadfully,  and  he  won't 
mind  if  T  lie  still  ?'  "  « 

"That  I  wouldn't !  What  should  I  care  what  came 
to  me  ?  What  would  it  matter  so  long  as  I  got  one 
look  at  him  !  Besides,  if  he  didn't  want  me  to  get  up, 
he  wouldn't  knock." 

"  But  suppose  you  knew  that  the  moment  you  turned 
the  ke}'-  you  would  drop  down,  and  when  the  Lord 
came  in  you  would  not  see  him." 

"  I  can't  think  where  you  want  to  take  me,  Mr.  Pol- 
warth  !"  said  the  youth.  "  Even  if  I  knew  I  should 
drop'dead  the  moment  I  got  on  the  floor,  what  would 
it  matter  !  I  should  get  to  him  the  sooner  then,  and 
tell  him  why  1  didn't  open  the  door.  Can  you  suppose 
for  a  moment  I  should  let  any  care  for  this  miserable 
body  of  mine  come  between  my  eyes  and  the  face  of 
my  Lord  ?" 

"  You  see  then  that  you  do  care  about  him  a  little, 
though  a  minute  ago  you  didn't  think  it  !  There  are 
many  feelings  in  us  that  are  not  able  to  get  up  stairs 
the  moment  we  call  them.  Be  as  dull  and  stupid  as  it 
pleases  God  to  let  you  be,  and  trouble  neither  yourself 
nor  him  about  that,  only  ask  him  to  be  with  you  all  the 
same." 


THE    BEDSIDE.  603 


The  little  man  dropped  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside, 
and  said, 

"  O  Lord  Jesus,  be  near  when  it  seems  to  us,  as  it 
seemed  to  thee  once,  that  our  Father  has  forsaken  us, 
and  gathered  back  to  himself  all  the  gifts  he  once  gave 
us.  Even  thou  who  wast  mighty  in  death,  didst  need 
the  presence  of  thy  Father  to  make  thee  able  to 
endure  :  forget  not  us,  the  work  of  thy  hands,  yea,  the 
labor  of  thy  heart  and  spirit.  Oh  remember  that  we  are 
his  offspring,  neither  accountable  for  our  own  being, 
nor  able  to  comicrt  or  strengthen  ourselves.  If  thou 
vrert  to  leave  us  alone,  we  should  cry  out  upon  thee  as 
on  the  mother  who  threw  her  babes  to  the  wolves— and 
there  are  no  wolves  able  to  terrify  thee.  Ah  Lord  !  we 
know  thou  leavest  us  not,  only  in  our  weakness  we  would 
comfort  our  hearts  with  the  music  of  the  words  of  faith. 
Thou  canst  not  do  other  than  care  for  us,  Lord  Christ, 
for  whether  we  be  glad  or  sorry,  slow  of  heart  or  full 
of  faith,  all  the  same  are  we  the  children  of  thy  Father. 
He  sent  us  here,  and  never  asked  us  if  we  would  ; 
therefore  thou  must  be  with  us,  and  give  us  repentance 
and  humility  and  love  and  faith,  that  we  may  indeed  be 
the  children  of  thy  Father  who  is  in  heaven.     Amen." 

While  Polwarth  was  yet  praying,  the  door  had  open- 
ed gently  behind  him,  and  Helen,  not  knowing  that 
he  was  there,  had  entered  with  Bascombe.  He  neither 
heard  their  entrance,  nor  saw  the  face  of  disgust  that 
George  made  behind  his  back.  What  was  in  Bas- 
combe's  deepest  soul  who  shall  tell  ?  Of  that  region 
he  himself  knew  nothing.     It  was  a  silent,  holy  place- 


6o4  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

into  which  he  had  never  yet  entered — therefore  lonely 
and  deserted  as  the  top  of  Sinai  after  the  cloud  had 
departed.  No — I  will  not  say  that  :  who  knows  what  is 
where  man  can  not  or  will  not  look  ?  If  George  had 
sought  there,  perhaps  he  might  have  found  traces  of  a 
presence  not  yet  altogether  vanished.  In  what  he 
called  and  imagined  his  deepest  soul,  however,  all  he 
was  now  conscious  of  was  a  perfect  loathing  of  the 
monstrous  superstition  so  fitly  embodied  before  him. 
The  prayer  of  the  kneeling  absurdity  was  to  him  an 
audacious  mockery  of  the  infrangible  laws  of  Nature: 
this  hulk  of  misshapen  pottery  actually  presuming  to 
believe  that  an  invisible  individual  heard  what  he  said 
because  he  crooked  his  hinges  to  say  it !  It  did  not 
occur  to  George  that  the  infrangible  laws  of  Nature  she 
had  herself  from  the  very  first  sc  agonizingly  broken  ta 
the  poor  dwarf,  she  had  been  to  him  such  a  cruel  step- 
mother, that  he  was  in  evil  case  indeed  if  he  could  find 
no  father  to  give  him  fair  play  and  a  chance  of  the 
endurable.  Was  he  so  much  to  blame  if  he  felt  the 
annihilation  offered  by  such  theorists  as  George,  not  alto- 
gether a  satisfactory  counterpoise  either  to  existence 
or  its  loss  ?  If.  even,  he  were  to  fancy  in  his  trouble 
that  the  old  fable  of  an  elder  brother,  something  more 
humble  than  grand,  handsome  George  Bascombe,  and 
more  ready  to  help  his  little  brothers  and  sisters,  might 
be  true,  seeing  that  an  old  story  is  not  necessarily  a 
false  one,  and  were  to  try  after  the  hints  it  gave,  surely 
in  his  condition  such  folly,  however  absurd  to  a  man  of 
George   Bascombe's  endowments,  might  of  the   mors 


THE    BEDSIDE.  605 


gifted  ephemeros  be  pardoned  if  not  pitied.  Nor  will  I 
assert  that  he  was  altogether  unaware  of  any  admixture 
of  the  sad  with  the  ludicrous  when  he  saw  the  amor- 
phous agglomerate  of  human  shreds  and  patches  kneel- 
ing by  the  bedside  of  the  dying  murderer,  to  pray  some 
comfort  into  his  passing  soul.  But  his  "gorge  rose  at 
the  nonsense  and  stuff  of  it,"  while  through  Helen  ran  a 
cold  shudder  of  disgust  at  the  familiarity  and  irreve- 
rence of  the  little  spiritual  prig.  How  many  of  the  judg- 
ments we  are  told  not  to  judge  and  yet  do  judge  must 
make  the  angels  of  the  judging  and  the  judged  turn  and 
look  at  each  other  and  smile  a  sad  smile,  ere  they  set 
themselves  to  forget  that  which  so  sorely  needs  to  be 
forgotten. 

Polwarth  rose  from  his  knees  unaware  of  a  hostile 
presence. 

"Leopold,"  he  said,  taking  his  hand,  "  I  would  gladly, 
if  I  might,  walk  with  you  through  the  shadow.  But  the 
heart  of  all  hearts  will  be  with  you.  Rest  in  your  tent 
a  little  while,  which  is  indeed  the  hollow  of  the  Father's 
hand  turned  over  you,  with  your  strong  brother  watch- 
ing the  door.  Your  imagination  can  not  go  beyond  the 
truth  of  him  who  is  the  Father  of  lights,  or  of  him  who 
is  the  Elder  Brother  of  men." 

Leopold  answered  only  with  his  e\''es.  Polwarth 
turned  to  go,  and  saw  the  on-lookers.  They  stood  be- 
tween him  and  the  door,  but  parted  and  made  room  for 
him  to  pass.  Neither  spoke.  He  made  a  bow  first  to 
one  and  then  to  the  other,  looking  up  in  the  face  of  each, 
unabashed   b}^  a  smile  of  scorn  or  blush  of  annoyance, 


6o6  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

but  George  took  no  notice,  walking  straigiit  to  the  bed 
the  moment  the  way  was  clear.  Helen's  conscience, 
however,  or  heart,  smote  her,  and,  returning  his  bow, 
she  opened  the  door  for  her  brother's  friend.  He 
thanked  her,  and  went  his  way. 

"  Poor  dear  fellow  !"  said  George  kindly,  and  stroked 
the  thin  hand  laid  in  his:  "can  I  do  anything  for 
you  }" 

"  Nothing  but  be  good  to  Helen  when  I  am  gone, 
and  tell  her  now  and  then  that  I  am  not  dead,  but  living 
in  the  hope  of  seeing  her  again  one  day  before  long. 
She  might  forget  sometimes — not  me,  but  that,  you 
know." 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'll  see  to  it,"  answered  George,  in  the  evil 
tone  of  one  who  faithfully  promises  a  child  an  impossi- 
bility. Of  course  there  was  no  more  harm  in  lying  to  a 
man  who  was  just  on  the  verge  of  being  a  man  no  more, 
and  becoming  only  an  unpleasant  mass  of  chemicals, 
which  a  whole  ant-heap  of  little  laws  would  presently  be 
carrying  outside  the  gates  of  the  organic,  than  there  had 
been  in  lying  to  him  when  he  supposed  him  a  madman. 
Neither  could  any  one  blame  him  for  inconsistency; 
for  had  he  not  always  said,  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart, 
that  he  would  never  disturb  the  faith  of  old  people 
drawing  nigh  their  end,  because  such  no  more  pos- 
sessed the  needful  elasticity  of  brain  to  acommodate 
themselves  to  the  subversion  of  previous  modes  of 
feeling  and  thought,  unavoidable  to  the  adoption  of  his 
precious  revelation.  Precious  he  did  believe  it,  never 
having   himself   had   one  of  those  visions  of    infinite 


THE    BEDSIDE.  607 


hope,  which,  were  his  theory  once  proved  as  true  as  he 
imagined  it,  must  then  indeed  vanish  forever, 

"  Do  you  sufter  much  ?"  asked  George, 

"  Yes — a  good  deal  " 

"  Pain  }" 

"  Not  so  much  ; — sometimes.  The  weakness  is  the 
worst.     But  it  doesn't  matter:  God  is  with  me." 

"  What  good  does  that  do  you  ?"  asked  George,  for- 
getting himself,  half  in  contempt,  half  in  a  curiosity 
which  he  would  have  called,  and  which  perhaps  was, 
scientific. 

But  Leopold  took  it  in  good  faith,  and  answered. 

"  It  sets  it  all  right,  and  makes  me  able  to  be  patient." 

George  laid  down  the  hand  he  held,  and  turned  sadly 
to  Helen,  but  said  nothing. 

The  next  moment  Wingfold  entered.  Helen  kissed 
the  dying  hand,  and  left  the  room  with  George. 


I 


CHAPTER    XC. 


THE    GARDEN. 


ENDERLY  he  led  her  into  the  garden,  and 
down  the  walks  now  bare  of  bordering  flow- 
ers. To  Helen  it  looked  like  a  graveyard  ; 
the  dry  bushes  were  the  memorials  of  the 
buried  flowers,  and  the  cypress  and  box  trees  rose  like 
the  larger  monuments  of  shapely  stone.  The  day  was 
a  cold  leaden  one,  that  would  have  rained  if  it  could,  to 
get  rid  of  the  deadness  at  its  heart,  but  no  tears  came. 
To  the  summer-house  they  went,  under  the  cedar,  and 
sat  down.     Neither  spoke  for  some  time. 

"  Poor  Leopold  !"   said  George  at  length,  and  took 
Helen's  hand. 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  again  for  some  time  neither 
spoke. 

"  George,  I  can't  bear  it  !"  she  said  at  length. 
'•  It  is  very  sad,"  answered  George.     "  But  he  had  a 
happy  life,  I  don't  doubt,  up  to  —  to  — " 

*•  What  does  that  matter   now  ?     It  is  all  a  horrible 


THE   GARDEN.  609 


farce.  To  begin  so  fair  and  lovely,  and  end  so  stormy 
and  cold  and  miserable  !" 

George  did  not  like  to  say  what  he  thought,  namely, 
that  it  was  Leopold's  own  doing.  He  did  not  see  that 
therein  lay  the  deepest  depth  of  the  misery — the  thing 
that  of  all  things  needed  help  :  all  else  might  be  borne  ; 
the  less  that  coidd  be  borne  the  better. 

"  It  is  horrible,"  he  said.  "  But  what  can  be  done  } 
What's  done  is  done,  and  nobody  can  help  it." 

"  There  should  be  somebody  to  help  it,"  said  Helen. 

"  Ah  !  Should  be  !"  said  George.  "  Well,  it's  a  com- 
fort it  will  soon  be  over  !" 

"  Is  it  y  returned  Helen  almost  sharply.  "  But  he's 
not  5^oul  brother,  and  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  lose 
him  !  Oh  how  desolate  the  world  will  be  without  my 
darling  !" 

And  again  her  tears  found  way. 

"  All  that  I  can  do  to  make  up  for  the  loss,  dearest 
Helen,"  said  George, — 

"O  George  !"  she  cried  starting  to  her  feet,  "  is  there 
no  hope  }  I  don't  mean  of  his  getting  better— that  we 
do  know  the  likelihoods  of— but  is  there  no  hope  of 
sometime  seeing  him  again  ?  We  know  so  little  about 
all  of  it  !     Might  there  not  be  some  way  ? 

But  George  was  too  honest  in  himself,  and  too  true 
to  his  principles,  to  pretend  anything  to  Helen.  Hers 
was  an  altogether  different  case  from  Leopold's.  Here 
was  a  young  woman  full  of  health,  and  life  and  hope, 
with  all  her  joys  before  her  !  Many  suns  must  set  be- 
fore her  sun  would  go  down,  many  pale  moons  look 


6lO  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

lovely  in  her  eyes,  ere  came  those  that  would  mock  her 
with  withered  memories — a  whole  hortus  siccus  of  pas- 
sion-flowers. Why  should  he  lie  to  her  of  a  hope  be- 
yond the  grave  }  Let  the  pleasures  of  the  world  be  the 
dearer  to  her  for  the  knowledge  that  they  must  so  soon 
depart ;  let  love  be  the  sweeter  for  the  mournful 
thought  that  it  is  a  thing  of  the  summer,  and  that  when 
the  winter  comes  it  shall  be  no  more  !  But  perhaps 
George  forgot  one  point.  I  will  allow  that  the  insects 
of  a  day,  dying  in  a  moment  of  delightful  fruition,  are 
blessed  ;  but  when  the  delicate  Psyche,  with  her  jewel- 
feathered  wings,  is  beat  about  by  a  wind  full  of  rain  un- 
til she  lies  draggled  in  the  dirt ;  when  there  are  no  more 
flowers,  or  if  there  be,  the  joy  of  her  hovering  is  over,  and 
yet  death  comes  but  slowly  ;  when  the  mourners  are  go- 
ing about  the  streets  ere  even  the  silver  cord  is  loosed  ; 
when  the  past  looks  a  mockery  and  the  future  a  blank  ; 
— then  perhaps,  even  to  the  correlatives  of  the  most  tri- 
umphant natural  selection,  it  may  not  merely  seem  as 
if  something  were  wrong  somewhere,  but  even  as  if 
there  ought  to  be  somsbody  to  set  wrong  right.  If 
Psyche  should  be  so  subdued  to  circumstance  as  to 
accept  without  question  her  supposed  fate,  then  doubly 
woe  for  Psyche  ! 

But  if  George  could  not  lie,  it  was  not  necessay  for 
him  to  speak  the  truth  :  silence  was  enough  A  moment 
of  it  was  all  Helen  could  endure.  She  rose  hastily,  left 
the  wintered  summer-house,  and  walked  back  to  the 
sick  chamber.  George  followed  a  few  paces  behind,  so 
far  quenched  that  he  did  not  overtake  her  to  walk  by 


THE   GARDEN.  6ll 


her  side,  feeling  he  had  no  aid  to  offer  her.  Doubtless 
he  could  have  told  her  of  help  at  hand,  but  it  was  help 
that  must  come,  that  could  neither  be  given  nor  taken, 
could  not  come  the  sooner  for  any  prayer,  and  indeed 
could  not  begin  to  exist  until  the  worst  should  be 
over :  the  nearest  George  came  to  belief  in  a  saving 
power,  was  to  console  himself  with  the  thought  that 
Time  would  do  everything  for  Helen. 


CHAPTER   XCI. 


THE      DEPARTURE. 


"^^S  LEOPOLD  slowly  departed,  he  seemed  to 
his  sister  to  draw  along  with  him  all  that  was 
precious  in  her  life.  She  felt  herself  grow 
dull  and  indifferent.  It  was  to  no  purpose 
that  she  upbraided  herself  with  heartlessness  ;  seem- 
ingly heartless  her  bosom  remained.  It  was  not  that 
her  mind  was  occupied  with  any  thing  else  than  her 
brother,  or  drew  comfort  from  another  source;  her 
feelings  appeared  to  be  dying  with  him  who  had  drawn 
them  forth  more  than  any  other.  The  battle  was  end- 
ing without  even  the  poor  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
torn  banners  and  wailful  music. 

Leopold  said  very  little  during  the  last  few  days. 
His  fits  of  coughing  were  more  frequent,  and  in  the 
pauses  he  had  neither  strength  nor  desire  to  speak. 
When  Helen  came  to  his  bedside,  he  would  put  out  his 
hand  to  her,  and  she  would  sit  down  by  him  and  hold  it 
warm  in  hers.  The  hand  of  his  sister  was  the  point  of 
the  planet  from  which,  like  his  mount  of  ascension,  the 


THE   DEPARTURE.  613 


spirit  of  the  youth  took  its  departure  ; — when  he  let 
that  go  he  was  gone.  But  he  died  asleep,  as  so  many  do  ; 
and  fancied,  I  presume,  that  he  was  waking  into  his  old 
life,  when  he  woke  into  his  new  one. 

Wingfold  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed,  with 
Polwarth  by  him,  for  so  had  the  departing  wished  it, 
and  although  he  made  no  sign,  I  can  not  but  think  he 
reaped  some  content  therefrom.  Whileyet  he  lingered, 
one  of  Helen's  listless,  straying  glances  was  arrest- 
ed by  the  countenance  of  the  gate-keeper.  It  was  so 
still  and  so  rapt  that  she  thought  he  must  be  seeing 
within  the  veil,  and  regarding  what  things  were  await- 
ing her  brother  on  the  reverse  side  of  the  two-sided 
wonder.  But  it  was  not  so.  Polwarth  saw  no  more 
than  she  did  :  he  was  only  standing  in  the  presence  of 
him  who  is  not  the  God  of  the  dead  but  of  the  living. 
Whatever  lay  in  that  Will  was  the  life  of  whatever 
came  of  that  Will,  that  is,  of  every  creature,  and  up  to 
that  Will,  to  the  face  of  the  Father,  he  lifted,  in  his 
prayerful  thought,  the  heart  and  mind  and  body  of  the 
youth  now  passing  through  the  birth  of  death.  "  I 
know  not,"  he  would  have  said,  had  he  been  questioned 
concerning  his  spiritual  attitude,  "  how  my  prayer 
should  for  another  work  anything  with  the  perfect 
Giver,  but  at  least  I  will  not  leave  my  friend  behind 
when  I  go  into  the  presence  of  his  Father  and  my 
Father.  And  I  believe  there  is  som.ething  in  it  I  can 
not  yet  see." 

Wingfold's  anxiety  was  all  for  Helen.     He  could  do 
no  more  for  Leopold,  nor  did  he  need  more  from  man. 


6 14  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,   CURATE, 


As  to  many  of  the  things  that  puzzled  them  most,  he 
was  on  his  way  to  know  more  ;  he  would  soon  be  in  the 
heart  of  what  seemed  likely  to  remain  a  long  secret  to 
him.  But  there  was  his  sister,  about  to  be  left  behind 
him  without  his  hopes  ;  tor  her  were  dreary  days  at 
hand  ;  and  the  curate  prayed  the  God  of  comfort  and 
consolation  to  visit  her. 

Mrs.  Ramshorn  would  now  and  then  look  in  at  the 
noiseless  door  of  the  chamber  of  death,  but  she  rightly 
felt  her  presence  was  not  desired  and  though  ready  to 
help  did  not  enter.  Neither  did  George — not  from 
heartlessness,  but  that  he  judged  it  better  to  leave  the 
priests  of  falsehood  undisturbed  in  the  exercise  of  their 
miserable  office.  What  did  it  matter  how  many  com- 
forting lies  were  told  to  a  dying  man  }  What  could  it 
matter?  There  was  small  danger  of  their  foolish  pray- 
ers and  superstitious  ceremonies  evoking  a  deity  from  a 
well-ordered,  self-evolved,  spheiicity  of  interacting  law, 
where  not  a  pin-hole  of  failure  afforded  space  out  of 
which  he  might  creep.  No  more  could  they  deprive 
the  poor  lad  of  the  bliss  of  returning  into  the  absolute 
nothingness  whence  he  had  crept — to  commit  a  horri- 
ble crime  against  immortal  society,  and  creep  back 
again  with  a  heart  full  of  love  and  remorse  and  self- 
abhorrence  into  the  black  abyss.  Therefore  why 
should  he  not  let  them  tell  their  lies  and  utter  their  silly 
incantations  ?  Aloof  and  unharmed  he  stood,  safe  on 
the  shore,  all  ready  to  reach  the  rescuing  hand  to 
Helen,  the  moment  she  should  turn  her  eyes  to  him, 
for  the  help  she  knew  he  had  to  give  her.    Certainly, 


THE   DEPARTURE.  615 


for  her  sake,  he  would  rather  she  were  not  left  unpro- 
tected to  such  subtle  and  insinuating  influences  ;  but 
with  the  power  of«  his  mind  upon  her  good  sense,  he 
had  no  fear  of  the  result.  Not  that  he  expected  her  t. 
submit  at  once  to  the  wholesome  regimen  and  plain 
diet  he  must  prescribe  her  :  the  soft  hand  of  Time  must 
first  draw  together  the  edges  of  her  heart's  wound. 

But  the  deadness  of  Helen's  feelings,  the  heartless- 
ness  because  of  which  she  cried  out  against  herself, 
seemed,  in  a  vague  way,  by  herself  unacknowledged  yet 
felt,  if  not  caused  by,  yet  associated  with  some  subtle 
radiation  from  the  being  of  George  Bascombe.  That 
very  morning  when  he  came  into  the  breakfast-room 
so  quietly  that  she  had  not  heard  him,  and,  looking  up, 
saw  him  unexpectedly,  he  seemed  for  a  moment,  she 
could  not  tell  why,  the  dull  fountain  of  all  the  misera- 
ble feeling — not  of  loss,  but  of  no  loss,  which  pressed 
her  heart  flat  in  her  bosom.  The  next  moment  she 
accused  herself  of  the  grossest  injustice,  attributing  it 
to  the  sickness  of  soul  which  the  shadow  of  death  had 
wrought  in  her ;  for  was  not  George  the  only  true 
friend  she  had  ever  had  .^  If  she  lost  him  she  must  be 
lonely  indeed  !  The  feeling  lingered  notwithstanding, 
and  when  she  thought  it  dispelled,  began  to  gather 
again  immediately. 

At  the  same  time  she  shrunk  from  Wing(old  as  hard 
and  unsympathetic.  True  he  had  been  most  kind,  even 
tender,  to  her  brother,  but  to  him  he  had  taken  a  fancy, 
having  found  in  him  one  whom  he  could  work  upon 
and  fashion  to  his  own  liking :  poor  Poldie  had  nev^r 


6l6  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

been  one  of  the  strongest  of  men.  But  to  her,  whom 
he  could  not  model  after  his  own  ideas,  who  required  a 
reason  for  the  thing  anyone  would  have  her  believe — to 
her  he  had  shown  the  rough  side  of  his  nature,  going 
farther  than  an)^  gentleman  ought,  even  if  he  was  a 
clergyman,  in  criticising  her  conduct.  He  might  well 
take  example  of  her  cousin  George  !  What  a  different 
sort  of  artillery  he  had  brought  to  bear  upon  the  out- 
standing fortress  of  her  convictions  ! 

So  would  she  say  within  herself,  again  and  again,  in 
different  forms,  not  knowing  how  little  of  conviction 
there  was  in  the  conclusions  she  seemed  to  come  to— 
how  much  of  old  habit  and  gratitude  on  the  one  hand, 
and  pride  and  resentment  upon  the  other.  And  there 
still  was  that  feeling  I  she  could  not  drive  it  away.  It 
was  like  trying  to  disperse  a  fog  with  a  fan. 

The  outside  weather,  although  she  was  far  past  heed- 
ing that,  was  in  harmony  with  her  soul's  weather.  A 
dull  dark  gray  fog  hung  from  the  sky,  and  without 
much  obscuring  the  earth  altogether  hid  the  sun.  The 
air  was  very  cold.  There  was  neither  joy  nor  hope 
anywhere.  The  bushes  were  leafless  and  budless,  the 
summer  gone,  the  spring  not  worth  hoping  for,  be- 
cause it  also  would  go :  spring  after  spring  came — for 
nothing  but  to  go  again  !  Things  were  so  empty 
and  wretched,  that  pain  and  grief,  almost  fear  itself 
would  have  been  welcome.  The  world  around  her,  yes, 
all  her  life,  all  herself,  was  but  the  coid  dead  body  of  a 
summer-world.  And  Leopold  was  going  to  be  buried 
with  the  summer.     His  smiles  had  all  gone  with  the 


THE    DEPARTURE.  617 


flowers.  The  weeds  of  his  troubles  were  going  also,  for 
they  would  die  with  him.  But  he  would  not  know  it 
and  be  glad,  any  more  than  she,  who  was  left  caring  for 
neither  summer  nor  winter,  joy  nor  sorrow,  love  nor 
hate,  the  past  nor  the  future. 

Many  such  thoughts  wandered  hazily  through  her 
mind  as  she  now  sat  holding  the  hand  of  him  who  was 
fast  sleeping  away  from  her  into  death.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  on  the  window  through  which  he  had  entered 
that  terrible  night,  but  she  saw  nothing  beyond  it. 

"  He  is  gone,"  said  Polwarth,  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
unknown  to  the  ears  of  Helen,  and  as  he  spoke  he 
kneeled. 

She  started  up  with  a  cry,  and  looked  in  her  brother's 
face.  She  had  never  seen  any  one  die,  yet  she  saw  that 
he  was  dead. 


CHAPTER    XCII. 


THE    SUNSET. 


OW  the  terrible  time,  terrible  for  its  very 
dulness  and  insensibility,  passed  until  it 
brought  the  funeral,  Helen  could  not  have 
told.  It  seemed  to  her,  as  she  looked  back 
upon  it,  a  bare  blank,  yet  was  the  blank  full  of  a  waste 
weariness  of  heart.  The  days  were  all  one,  outside  and 
inside.  Her  heart  was  but  a  lonely  narrow  bay  to  the 
sea  of  cold  immovable  fog  that  filled  the  world.  No 
one  tried  to  help,  no  one  indeed  knew  her  trouble. 
Every  one  took  it  for  grief  at  the  loss  of  her  brother, 
while  to  herself  it  was  the  oppression  of  a  life  that  had 
not  even  the  interest  of  pain.  The  curate  had  of  course 
called  to  inquire  after  her,  but  had  not  been  invited  to 
enter.  George  had  been  everywhere  with  help,  but 
had  no  word  to  speak. 

The  day  of  the  funeral  came,  in  thin  fog  and  dull 
cold.  The  few  friends  gathered.  The  body  was  borne 
to  the  Abbey.  The  curate  received  it  at  the  gate  in  the 
name  of  the  church — which  takes  our  children  in  its 


THE   SUNSET.  619 


arms,  and  our  bodies  into  its  garden— save  indeed 
where  her  gardener  is  some  foolish  priest  who  knows 
not  the  heart  of  his  mother,  and  will  pick  and  choose 
among  her  dead  ; — the  lovely  words  of  the  last-first  of 
the  apostles,  were  read  ;  and  earth  was  given  back  to 
earth,  to  mingle  with  the  rest  of  the  stuff  the  great 
workman  works  withal.  Cold  was  Helen's  heart,  cold 
her  body,  cold  her  very  being.  The  earth,  the  air,  the 
mist,  the  very  light  was  cold.  The  past  was  cold,  the 
future  yet  colder.  She  would  have  grudged  Leopold 
his  lonely  rest  in  the  grave,  biit  that  she  had  not  feel- 
ing enough  even  for  that.  Her  life  seemed  withering 
away  from  her  like  an  autumn  flower  in  the  frosts  of 
winter ;  and  she,  as  if  she  had  been  but  a  flower,  did 
not  seem  to  care.  What  was  life  worth,  when  it  had  not 
strength  to  desire  even  its  own  continuance  }  Heart- 
less she  returned  from  the  grave,  careless  of  George's 
mute  attentions,  not  even  scornful  of  her  aunt's  shal- 
low wail  over  the  uncertainty  of  life  and  all  things  hu- 
man,— so  indifferent  to  the  whole  misery,  that  she 
walked  straight  up  to  the  room,  hers  once  more,  from 
which  the  body  had  just  been  carried,  and  which,  for  so 
many  many  weary  weeks,  had  been  the  centre  of  loving 
pain,  sometimes  agony.  Once  more  she  was  at  peace — 
but  what  a  peace  ! 

She  took  off  her  rloak  and  bonnet,  laid  them  on  the 
bed,  went  to  the  window,  sat  down,  and  gazed,  hardly 
seeing,  out  on  the  cold  garden  with  its  sodden  earth,  its 
leafless  shrubs,  and  perennial  trees  of  darkness  and 
mourning.     The  meadow  lay  beyond,  and  there  she  did 


620  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

see  the  red  cow  busily  feeding,  and  was  half-angry  with 
her.  Beyond  the  meadow  stood  the  trees,  with  the 
park  behind  them.  And  yet  further  behind  lay  the 
hollow  with  the  awful  house  in  its  bosom,  its  dismal 
haunted  lake,  and  its  ruined  garden.  But  nothing 
moved  her.  She  could  have  walked  over  every  room 
in  that  house  without  a  single  quaver  of  the  praecordia. 
Poldie  was  dead,  but  was  it  not  well  ?  Even  if  he  had 
not  been  in  trouble,  what  should  his  death  matter.^ 
She  would  die  soon  herself  and  for  ever :  what  did  that 
or  any  thing  else  matter  ?  Might  she  but  keep  this  dul- 
ness  of  spirit,  and  never  more  wake  to  weep  foolish 
tears  over  an  existence  the  whole  upstanding  broad- 
based  fact  of  which  was  not  worth  one  drop  in  the  riv- 
ers of  weeping  that  had  been  flowing  ever  since  the  joy- 
less birth  of  this  unconceived,  ill-fated,  unfathered 
world  !  To  the  hour  of  death  belonged  jubilation  and 
not  mourning  ;  the  hour  of  birth  was  the  hour  of  sor- 
row. Back  to  the  darkness  I  was  the  cry  of  a  life  whose 
very  being  was  an  injury,  only  there  was  no  one  to  have 
done  the  injury. 

Thus  she  sat  until  she  was  summoned  to  dinner — ear- 
ly for  the  sake  of  the  friends  whose  home  lay  at  a  dis- 
tance. She  ate  and  drank  and  took  her  share  in  the 
talk  as  matter  of  course,  believing  all  at  the  table 
would  judge  her  a  heartless  creature,  and  careless  of 
what  they  might  think  or  say.  But  they  judged  her  more 
kindly  and  more  truly  than  she  judged  herself.  They 
saw  through  her  eyes  the  deeps  whose  upward  duct^ 
were  choked  with  the  frost  of  an  unknown  despair. 


THE   SUNSET.  621 


No  sooner  was  she  at  liberty,  than  again  she  sought 
her  room,  not  consciousl}^  from  love  to  her  brother 
who  had  died  there,  but  because  the  deadness  of  her 
heart  chose  a  fitting  loneliness  ;  and  again  she  seated 
herself  at  the  window. 

The  dreary  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  night, 
drearier  it  could  not  be,  w^s  at  hand.  The  gray  had 
grown  darker,  and  she  sat  like  one  waiting  for  the  night 
like  a  monster  coming  to  claim  its  own  and  swallow  her 
up. 

Something — was  it  an  invasion  of  reviving  light  ? 
caused  her  to  lift  her  eyes.  Away,  sideways  from  her 
window,  in  the  west,  the  mist  had  cleared  a  little — 
somewhere  about  the  sun.  Thinner  and  thinner  it 
grew.  No  sun  came  forth :  he  was  already  down  ;  but 
a  canopy  of  faint  amber  grew  visible,  stretched  above 
his  tomb.  It  was  the  stuff  of  which  sad  smiles  are 
made,  not  a  thing  that  belonged  to  gladness.  But  only 
he  who  has  lost  his  sorrow  without  regaining  his  joy,  can 
tell  how  near  sorrow  lieth  to  joy.  Who  that  has  known 
the  dull  paths  of  listless  no-feeling,  would  not  have  his 
sorrow  back  with  all  its  attendant  agonies  ? 

The  pale  amber  spread,  dilute  with  light,  and  beneath 
it  lay  the  gray  of  the  fog,  and  above  it  the  dark  blue  of 
cloud — not  of  sky.  The  soul  of  it  was  so  still,  so  re- 
signed, so  sad,  so  forsaken,  that  she  who  had  thought 
her  heart  gone  from  her,  suddenly  felt  its  wells  were  fill- 
ing, and  soon  they  overflowed.  She  wept.  At  what  ? 
A  color  in  the  sky  !  Was  there  then  a  God  that  knew 
sadness — and  was  that  a  banner  of  grief  he  hung  forth  to 


622  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

comfort  the  sorrowful  with  sympathy?  Or  was  it  but  a 
godless  color  which  the  heart  varnished  with  its  own 
grief?  Or  if  the  human  heart  came  from  nothing  and 
was  sad,  v/hy  might  not  the  aspects  of  nature  come 
from  nothing  and  be  sad  too — wrought  in  harmony  with 
the  unutterable  woe  of  humanity?  Then  either  man  is 
the  constructive  centre  of  the  world,  and  its  meanings 
are  but  his  own  face  looking  back  upon  him  from  the 
mirror  of  his  own  projected  atmosphere,  and  comfort 
there  is  none  ;  or  he  is  not  the  centre  of  the  world, 
which  yet  carries  in  its  forms  and  colors  the  aspects  of 
his  mind  ;  and  then,  horror  of  horrors  !  is  man  the 
one  conscious  point  and  object  of  a  vast  derision — in- 
sentient nature  grinning  at  sentient  man  !  rose  or  saf- 
fron his  sky,  but  mocks  and  makes  mows  at  him  ;  while 
he  himself  is  the  worst  mockery  of  all,  being  at  once 
that  which  mocks  and  that  which  not  only  is  mocked 
but  writhes  in  agony  under  the  mockery.  Such  as 
Ba^combe  reply,  they  find  it  not  so.  T  answer — For  the 
bCv'^t  of  reasons,  that  it  is  not  so. 

Helen's  doubts  did  not  stay  her  weeping,  as  doubt 
generally  does  ;  for  the  sky  with  its  sweet  sadness  was 
before  her,  and  deep  in  her  heart  a  lake  of  tears,  which, 
now  that  it  had  begun  to  flow,  would  not  be  stayed. 
She  knew  not  why  she  wept,  knew  not  that  it  was  the 
sympathy  of  that  pale  amber  of  sad  resignation  which 
brought  her  relief;  but  she  wept  and  wept,  until  her 
heart  began  to  stir,  and  her  tears  came  cooler  and 
freer. 

"  Oh  Poldie  !  nvy  own  Poldie  !  "  she  cried  at  length, 


THE   SUNSET.  623 


and  fell  upon  her  knees — not  to  worship)  the  sky — not  to 
pray  to  Poldie,  or  even  for  Poldie — not  indeed  to  pray 
at  all,  so  far  as  she  knew  ;  yet  I  doubt  if  it  was  merely 
and  only  from  the  impulse  of  the  old  childish  habit  ol 
saying  prayers. 

But  in  a  moment  she  grew  restless.  There  was  no 
Poldie  !  She  rose  and  walked  about  the  room.  And 
he  came  back  to  her  soul,  her  desolate  brother,  clothed, 
alas  !  in  the  rags  and  tatters  of  all  the  unkind  and  un- 
just thoughts  she  had  ever  had  concerning  him,  and 
wearing  on  his  face  the  reflection  of  her  worse  deeds. 
She  had  stood  between  him  and  the  only  poor  remnant 
of  peace,  consolation,  and  hope,  that  it  was  possible  he 
should  have  ;  and  it  was  thiough  the  friends  whom  she 
had  treated  with  such  distance  and  uncordiality  that  he 
did  receive  it.  Then  out  rushed  from  the  chamber  of 
her  memory  the  vision  of  the  small  dark  nervous  wild- 
looking  Indian  boy,  who  gazed  at  her  but  for  one  ques- 
tioning moment,  then  shot  into  her  arms  and  nestled  in 
her  bosom.  How  had  she  justified  that  faith  .-  She 
had  received,  and  sheltered,  and  shielded  him,  doubt- 
less, and  would  have  done  so  with  her  life,  yet,  when 
it  came  to  the  test,  she  had  loved  herself  better  than 
him,  and  would  have  doomed  him  to  agony  rather  than 
herself  to  disgrace.  Oh  Poldie  !  Poldie  !  But  he 
could  not  hear  !  Never,  forevermore,  should  she  uttei 
to  him  word  of  sorrow  or  repentance  !  Never  beg  his 
forgiveness,  or  let  him  know  that  now  she  knew  better, 
and  had  risen  above  such  weakness  and  selfishness  I 


624  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

She  stopped,  and  looked  sadly  from  the  window.     The 
sky  was  cloudless  overhead,  and  the  amber  pall  was 
fainter   and  clearer  over  the  tomb  of   the  sun.      She 
turned  hastily  to  the  bed  where  lay  her  cloak  and  bon- 
net, put  them  on  with  trembling  hands,  and  went  out 
by  that  same  window  into  the  garden.     She  could  not 
help  a  shudder  as  she  stood  in  the  dark  passage  unlock- 
ing the  door  in  the  sunk  fence,  but  the  next  minute  she 
was  crossing  the  meadow  through  the  cold  frosty  twi- 
light air,  now  clear  of  its  fog,  and  seeming  somehow  to 
comfort,  uplift,  and  strengthen  her.     The  red  cow  was 
still  feeding  there.     She  stopped  and  talked  to  her  a 
little.     She  seemed  one  of  Poldie's  friends,  and  Poldie 
had  come  back   to  her  heart  if  he  might  never  more  to 
her  arms,  and  she  was  now  on  her  way  to    jne  of  his 
best  friends,  whom,  as  more  worthy,  he  had  loved  even 
better  than   her,  and   whom    she  had   not  honored  as 
they  deserved  or  as  he  must  have  desired.     To  get  near 
them,  would   be  to  get  nearer  to  Poldie.     At  least  she 
would  be  with  those  whom  he  had  loved,  and  who,  she 
did  not  doubt,  still  loved  him,  believing  him  still  alive. 
She  could  not  go  to  the  curate,  but  she  could  go  to  the 
Polwarths,  no  one  would  blame  her  for  that — except, 
indeed,  George.     But  even  George  should  not  come  be- 
tween her  and  what  mere  show  of  communion  with  Pol- 
die was  left  her  !     She  would  keep  her  freedom— would 
rather  break  with  George  than  lose  an  atom  of  her  lib- 
erty !     She  would  be  no  clay  for  his  hands  to  mould  af- 
ter his  pleasure. 


THE   SUNSET.  625 


She  opened  the  door  in  the  fence  and  entered  the 
park  seeming  to  recover  strength  with  every  step  she 
took  towards  Poldie's  friends  !  It  was  almost  dark 
when  she  stood  at  the  lodge-door  and  knocked. 


CHAPTER  XCIII. 

AN    HONEST    SPY. 

O  one  answered  Helen's  knock.  She  repeat- 
ed it,  and  still  no  answer  came.  Her  heart 
might  have  failed  her,  but  that  she  heard 
voices  :  what  if  they  were  talking  about  Leo- 
pold }  At  length,  after  knocking  four  or  five  times, 
she  heard  the  step  as  of  a  child  coming  down  a  stair  ; 
but  it  passed  the  door.  Clearly  no  one  had  heard  her. 
She  knocked  yet  again,  and  immediately  it  was  opened 
by  Rachel.  The  pleasured  surprise  that  shone  up  in 
her  face  when  she  saw  who  it  was  that  stood  without, 
was  lovely  to  see,  and  Helen,  on  whose  miserable  iso- 
lation it  came  like  a  sunrise  of  humanity,  took  no  coun- 
sel with  pride,  but,  in  simple  gratitude  for  the  voiceless 
yet  eloquent  welcome,  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  The 
little  arms  were  flung  about  her  neck,  and  the  kiss  re- 
turned with  such  a  gentle  warmth  and  restrained  sweet- 
ness as  would  have  satisfied  the  most  fastidious  in  the 
matter  of  salute — to  which  class,  however,  Helen  did 
not   belong,    for   she   seldom    kissed   any   one.      Then 


AN   HONEST  SPY.  627 


Rachel  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  into  the 
kitchen,  placed  a  chair  for  her  near  the  fire,  and  said, 

"  I  am  sorry  there  is  no  fire  in  the  parlor.  The  gen- 
tlemen are  in  my  uncle's  room.  Oh,  Miss  Lingard,  I  do 
wish  you  could  have  heard  how  they  have  been  talk- 
ing I" 

"  Have  they  been  saying  anything  about  my  brother  7  " 
asked  Helen. 

"  It's  all  about  him,"  she  replied. 

"  May  I  ask  who  the  gentlemen  are  ?"  said  Helen 
doubtfully. 

"  Mr.  Wingfold  and  Mr.  Drew.     They  are  often  here." 

"  Is  it — do  you  mean  Mr.  Drew  the  draper.^" 

"  Yes.  He  is  one  of  Mr.  Wingfold's  best  pupils.  He 
brought  him  to  my  uncle,  and  he  has  come  often  ever 
since." 

"  I  never  heard  that— Mr.  Wingfold — took  pupils. — I 
am  afraid  I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"  I  would  have  said  disciples^  returned  Rachel  smil- 
ing ;  "  but  that  has  grown  to  feel  such  a  sacred  word- 
as  if  it  belonged  only  to  the  Master,  that  I  didn't  like  to 
use  it.  It  would  say  best  what  I  mean  though  ;  for 
there  are  people  in  Glaston  that  are  actually  mending 
their  v.^ays  because  of  Mr.  Wingfold's  teaching,  and  Mr. 
Drew  was  the  first  of  them.  It  is  long  since  such  a 
thing  was  heard  of  in  the  Abbey.  It  never  was  in  my 
time." 

Helen  sighed.  She  wished  it  had  remained  possible 
for  her  also  to  become  one  of  Mr.  Wingfold's  pupils, 
but  how  could  she  now  when  she  had  learned  that  what 


628  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


he  had  to  teach  was  at  best  but  a  lovely  phantasm, 
sprung  of  the  seething  together  of  the  conscience  and 
imagination.  George  could  give  account  of  the  whole 
matter  :  religion  invariably  excited  the  imagination  and 
weakened  the  conscience  ; — witness  the  innumerable 
tales  concerning  Jesus  invented  in  the  first  of  the 
Christian  centuries,  and  about  this  and  that  saint  in 
those  that  followed  !  Helen's  experience  in  Leopold's 
case  had  certainly  been  different,  but  the  other  fact  re- 
mained. Alas,  she  could  not  be  a  pupil  of  Mr.  Wing- 
fold!  She  could  no  longer  deceive  herself  with  such 
comfort.  And  yet  ! — Coine  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you 
rest. 

"  I  do  wish  I  could  hear  them,"  she  said. 

"  And  why  not  ?"  returned  Rachel.  "  There  is  not 
one  of  them  would  not  be  glad  to  see  you.  I  know 
that." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  should  hinder  their  talk.  Would  they 
speak  just  as  freely  as  if  I  were  not  there  }  Not  that  I 
know  why  they  shouldn't,"  she  added  ;  "  only  the  pres- 
ence of  any  stranger — " 

"  You  are  no  stranger  to  Mr.  Wingfold  or  my  uncle," 
said  Rachel,  "and  I  daresay  you  know  Mr.  Drew?" 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth.  Miss  Polwarth,  I  have  not  be- 
haved as  I  should  either  to  your  uncle  or  Mr.  Wingfold. 
I  know  it  now  that  my  brother  is  gone.  They  were 
so  good  to  him  !  I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  been  possessed 
with  an  evil  spirit.  I  could  not  bear  them  to  be  more 
to  him  than  I  was.  Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  hear  what 
they  are  saying  !     I  feel  as  if  I  should  get  a  glimpse  ot 


AN    HONEST   SPY.  629 


Leopold — almost,  if  I  might.  But  I  couldn't  face  them 
altogether.     I  could  not  go  into  the  room." 

Rachel  was  silent  for  a  moment,  thinking.  Then  she 
said  : 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  then  :  there's  no  occasion.  Be- 
tween my  uncle's  room  and  mine  there's  a  little  closet, 
where  you  shall  sit  and  hear  every  word.  Nothing  will 
divide  you  from  them  but  a  few  thin  old  boards." 

'•  That  would  hardly  be  honorable  though — would  it  ?" 

"  I  will  answer  for  it.  I  shall  tell  my  uncle  afterwards. 
There  may  be  cases  where  the  motive  makes  the 
right  or  the  wrong.  It's  not  as  if  you  were  listening  to 
find  out  secrets.  I  shall  be  in  the  room,  and  that  will 
be  a  connectino^  link,  you  know :  they  never  turn  me  out. 
Come  now.     We  don't  know  what  we  may  be  losing." 

The  desire  to  hear  Leopold's  best  friends  talk  about 
him  was  strong  in  Helen,  but  her  heart  misgave  her : 
was  it  not  unbecoming  ?  She  would  be  in  terror  of  dis- 
covery all  the  time.  In  the  middle  of  the  stair,  she 
drew  Rachel  back  and  whispered, 

"  I  dare  not  do  it." 

"  Come  on,"  said  Rachel.  "  Hear  what  I  shall  say  to 
them  first.     After  that  you  shall  do  as  you  please." 

Evidently  so  quick  was  her  response,  her  thoughts 
had  been  going  m  the  same  direction  as  Helen's. 

*' Thank  you  for  trusting  me,"  she  added,  as  Helen 
again  followed  her. 

Arrived  at  the  top,  the  one  stood  trembling,  while  the 
other  went  into  the  room. 

•*  Uncle,"  said  Rachel,  *'  I  have  a  friend  in  the  house 


630  THOxMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

who  is  very  anxious  to  hear  you  and  our  friends  speak 
your  minds  to  each  other,  but  for  reasons  does  not 
wish  to  appear  :  will  you  allow  my  friend  to  listen  with- 
out being  seen  ?" 

"  Is  it  your  wish,  Rachel,  or  are  you  only  conveying 
the  request  of  another  ?"  asked  her  uncle. 

•'  It  is  my  wish,"  answered  Rachel.  "  I  really  desire  it 
- — if  you  do  not  mind." 

She  looked  from  one  to  another  as  she  spoke.  The 
curate  and  the  draper  indicated  a  full  acquiescence. 

"  Do  you  quite  know  what  you  are  about,  Rachel  ?" 
asked  Polwarth. 

"  Perfectly,  uncle,"  she  answered.  "There  is  no  rea- 
son why  you  should  not  talk  as  freely  as  if  you  were 
talking  only  to  me.  I  will  put  my  friend  in  the  closet, 
and  you  need  never  think  that  any  one  is  in  the  house 
but  ourselves." 

"Then  I  have  no  more  to  say,"  returned  her  uncle 
with  a  smile.  "  Your /rz'end,  whoever  he  or  she  may  be, 
is  heartily  welcome." 

Rachel  rejoined  Helen,  who  had  already  drawn  nearer 
to  the  door  of  the  closet,  and  now  seated  herself  right 
willingly  in  its  shelter,  amidst  an  atmosphere  odorous 
of  apples  and  herbs.  Already  the  talk  was  going  on 
just  as  before.  At  first  each  of  the  talkers  did  now  and 
then  remember  there  was  a  listener  unseen,  but  found, 
when  the  conversation  came  to  a  close,  that  he  had  for 
a  ^ong  time  forgotten  it. 


CHAPTER    XCIV. 

WHAT     HELEN      HEARD. 

LTHOUGH  satisfied  that,  after  what  Rachel 
had  said  to  the  men,  there  could  be  no  im- 
propriety in  her  making  use  of  the  privilege 
granted  her,  Helen  felt  oddly  uncomfortable 
at  first.  But  soon  the  fancy  came,  that  she  was  listen- 
ing at  the  door  of  the  other  world  to  catch  news  of  her 
Leopold,  and  that  made  her  forget  herself  and  put  her 
at  peace.  For  some  time,  however,  the  conversation 
was  absolutely  unintelligible  to  her.  She  understood 
the  words  and  phrases,  and  even  some  of  the  sentences, 
but  as  she  had  no  clew  to  their  drift,  the  effort  to  under- 
stand was  like  attempting  to  realize  the  span  of  a  rain- 
bow from  a  foot  or  two  of  it  appearing  now  and  then  in 
different  parts  and  vanishing  again  at  once.  It  was 
chiefly  Polwarth,  often  Wingfold,  and  now  and  then 
Drew  that  spoke,  Rachel  contributing  only  an  occasion- 
al word.  At  length  broke  something  of  a  dawn  over 
the  seeming  chaos.  The  words  from  which  the  light 
that  first  reached  Helen  flov/ed.  were  the  draper's. 


632  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  I  can't  think,  for  all  that,"  he  said,  "  why,  if  there  be 
life  beyond  the  grave,  and  most  sincereJy  I  trust  there 
is — I  don't  see  why  we  should  know  so  little  about  it. 
Confess  now,  Mr.  Polwarth  ! — Mr.  Wingfold  !"  he  said 
appealingly,  " — does  it  not  seem  strange  that,  if  our 
dearest  friends  go  on  living  somewhere  else,  they 
should,  the  moment  they  cease  to  breathe,  pass  away 
from  us  utterly— so  utterly  that  from  that  moment 
neither  hint  nor  trace  nor  sign  of  their  existence  ever 
reaches  us  .^  Nature,  the  Bible,  God  himself  says  noth- 
ing about  how  they  exist  or  where  they  are,  or  why  they 
are  so  silent — cruelly  silent  if  it  be  in  their  power  to 
speak, — therefore,  they  can  not ;  and  here  we  are  left 
not  only  with  aching  hearts  but  wavering  faith,  not 
knowing  whither  to  turn  to  escape  the  stare  of  the  aw- 
ful blank,  that  seems  in  the  very  intensity  of  its  silence 
to  shout  in  our  ears  that  we  are  but  dust  and  return  to 
the  dust !" 

The  gate-keeper  and  curate  interchanged  a  pleased 
look  of  surprise  at  the  draper's  eloquence,  but  Pol- 
warth instantly  took  up  his  answer. 

"  I  grant  you  it  would  be  strange,  indeed,  if  there 
were  no  good  reason  for  it,"  he  said. 

"  Then  do  you  say,"  asked  Wingfold,  "  that  until  we 
see,  discover,  or  devise  some  good  reason  for  the  dark- 
ness that  overhangs  it,  we  are  at  liberty  to  remain  in 
doubt  as  to  whether  there  be  any  life  within  the 
cloud  ?" 

"  I  would  say  so,"  answered  Polwarth,  "  were  it  not 
that  we  have  the  story  of  Jesus,  which,  if  we  accept  it 


WHAT    HELEN    HEARD.  633 

is  surely  enough  to  satisfy  us  both  as  to  the  thing 
itself,  and  as  to  the  existence  of  a  good  reason,  whether 
we  have  found  one  or  not,  for  the  mystery  that  over- 
shadows it." 

"  Still  I  presume  we  are  not  forbidden  to  seek  such  a 
reason,"  said  the  curate. 

The  draper  was  glancing  from  the  one  to  the  other 
with  evident  anxiety. 

"Certainly  not,"  returned  the  gate-keeper.  "For 
what  else  is  our  imagination  given  us  but  the  discovery 
of  good  reasons  that  are,  or  the  invention  of  good  rea- 
sons that  may  perhaps  be  .''" 

"Can  you  then  imagine  any  good  reason,"  said  Drew, 
"why  we  should  be  kept  in  such  absolute  ignorance  of 
every  thing  that  befalls  the  parted  spirit  from  the  mo- 
ment it  quits  its  house  with  us  }" 

"  I  think  I  know  one,"  answered  Polwarth.  "  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  it  might  be  because  no  true  idea  of 
their  condition  could  possibly  be  grasped  by  those  who 
remain  in  the  tabernacle  of  the  body  ;  that  to  know 
their  state  it  is  necessary  that  we  also  should  be 
clothed  in  our  new  bodies,  which  are  to  the  old  as  a 
house  to  a  tent.  I  doubt  if  we  have  any  words  in  which 
the  new  facts  could  be  imparted  to  our  knowledge,  the 
facts  themselves  being  beyond  the  reach  of  any  senses 
whereof  we  are  now  in  actual  possession.  I  expect  to 
find  my  new  body  provided  with  new,  I  mean  ^///^r  senses 
beyond  what  1  now  possess :  many  more  may  be 
required  to  bring  us  into  relation  with  all  the  facts  in 
himself  which  God  may  have  shadowed  forth  in  proper- 


634  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

ties,  as  we  say,  of  what  we  call  matter  ?  The  spaces  all 
around  us,  even  to  those  betwixt  star  and  star,  may  be 
the  home  of  the  multitudes  of  the  heavenly  host,  yet 
seemingly  empty  to  all  who  have  but  our  provision  of 
senses.  But  I  do  not  care  to  dwell  upon  that  kind  of 
speculation.  It  belongs  to  a  lower  region,  upon  which 
I  grudge  to  expend  interest  while  the  far  loftier  one 
invites  me,  where,  if  I  gather  not  the  special  barley  of 
which  I  am  in  search,  I  am  sure  to  come  upon  the  finest 
of  wheat. — Well,  then,  for  my  reason  :  There  are  a 
thousand  individual  events  in  the  course  of  every 
man's  life,  by  which  God  takes  a  hold  of  him — a  thou- 
sand breaches  by  which  he  would  and  does  enter,  little 
as  the  man  may  know  it  ;  but  there  is  one  universal 
and  unchanging  grasp  he  keeps  upon  the  race,  yet  not 
as  the  race,  for  the  grasp  is  upon  every  solitary  single 
individual  that  has  a  part  in  it :  that  grasp  is— death  in 
its  mystery.  To  whom  can  the  man  who  is  about  to 
die  in  absolute  loneliness  and  go  he  can  not  tell  whith- 
er, fiee  for  refuge  from  the  doubts  and  fears  that  assail 
him,  but  to  the  Father  of  his  being  ?" 

"  But,"  said  Drew,  "  I  can  not  see  what  harm  would 
come  of  letting  us  know  a  little— as  much  at  least  as 
might  serve  to  assure  us  that  there  was  more  of  some- 
thing  on  the  other  side." 

"Just  this,"  returned  Polwarth,  "that,  their  fears 
allayed,  their  hopes  encouraged  from  any  lower  quar- 
ter, men  would,  as  usual,  turn  away  from  the  fountain 
to  the  cistern  of  life,  from  the  ever  fresh  original  crea- 
tive Love  to  that  drawn  off  and  shut  in.    That  there  are 


WHAT    HELEN    HEARD.  635 


thousands  who  would  forget  God  if  they  could  but  be 
assured  of  such  a  tolerable  state  of  things  beyond  the 
grave  as  even  this  wherein  we  now  live,  is  plainly  to  be 
anticipated  from  the  fact  that  the  doubts  of  so  many  in 
respect  of  religion  concentrate  themselves  nowadays 
upon  the  question  whether  there  is  any  life  beyond  the 
grave ;  a  question  which,  although  no  doubt  nearly 
associated  with  religion,— as  what  question  worth  ask- 
ing is  not  ? — does  not  immediately  belong  to  religion 
at  all.  Satisfy  such  people,  if  you  can,  that  they  shall 
live,  and  what  have  they  gained  ?  A  little  comfort 
perhaps — but  a  comfort  not  from  the  highest  source, 
and  possibly  gained  too  soon  for  their  well-being. 
Does  it  bring  them  any  nearer  to  God  than  they  were 
before.^  Is  he  filling  one  cranny  more  of  their  hearts 
in  consequence  ?  Their  assurance  of  immortality  has 
not  come  from  a  knowledge  of  him,  and  without  him  it 
is  worse  than  worthless.  Little  indeed  has  been  gained, 
and  that  with  the  loss  of  much.  The  word  applies  here 
which  our  Lord  in  his  parable  puts  in  the  mouth  of 
Abraham  :  If  they  hear  not  Moses  and  the  prophets,  neith- 
er will  they  be  persuaded  though  one  rose  frotn  the  dead. 
He  does  not  say  they  would  not  believe  in  a  future 
state  though  one  rose  ^rom  the  dead — although  most 
likely  they  would  soon  persuade  themselves  that  the 
apparition  after  all  was  only  an  illusion — *  but  that 
they  would  not  be  persuaded  to  repent,  though  one 
rose  from  the  dead  ;  and  without  that,  what  great  mat- 


*  See  Lynch's  admirable  sermon  on  this  subject. 


636  THOMAS    WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

ter  whether  they  believed  in  a  future  state  or  not  ?  It 
would  only  be  the  worse  for  them  if  they  did.  No,  Mr. 
Drew  !  I  repeat,  it  is  not  a  belief  in  immortality  that 
will  deliver  a  man  from  the  woes  of  humanity,  but  faith 
in  the  God  of  life,  the  Father  of  lights,  the  God  of  all 
consolation  and  comfort.  Believing  in  him,  a  man  can 
leave  his  friends,  and  their  and  his  own  immortality, 
with  everything  else — even  his  and  their  love  and  per- 
fection, with  utter  confidence  in  his  hands.  Until  we 
have  the  life  in  us,  we  shall  never  be  at  peace.  The 
living  God  dwelling  in  the  heart  he  has  made,  and  glo- 
rifying it  by  inmost  speech  with  himself — that  is  life, 
assurance  and  safety.     Nothing  less  is  or  can  be  such." 


CHAPTER  XCV. 


WHAT  HELEN  HEARD  MORE 


WORD  you  dropped  the  other  day,"  said  the 
curate,  "  set  me  thinking  of  the  noteworthy 
fact  that  behef  in  God  and  belief  in  immor- 
tahty  cease  together.  But  I  do  not  see  the 
logic  of  it.  If  we  are  here  without  God,  why  may  we 
not  go  on  there  without  God  ?  I  marvel  that  I  have 
heard  of  no  one  taking  up  and  advocating  the  view. 
What  a  grand  discovery  it  would  be  for  some  people — 
that  not  only  was  there  no  God  to  interfere  with  them, 
and  insist  on  their  becoming  something  worth  being, 
but  that  they  were  immortal  notwithstanding !  that 
death  was  only  the  passage  of  another  birth  into  a  con- 
dition of  enlarged  capacity  for  such  bliss  as  they 
enjoyed  here,  but  more  exalted  in  degree,  perhaps  in 
kind,  and  altogether  preferable." 

"I  know  one  to  whom  the  thought  would  not  have 
been  a  new  one,"  said  Polwarth.  "  Have  you  not  come 
upon  a  passage  in  my  brother's  manuscript  involving 
the  very  idea?"  . 


638  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  Not  yet.  I  read  very  slowly  and  pick  up  all  the 
crumbs.  I  wish  we  had  had  the  book  here.  I  should 
have  so  much  liked  to  hear  you  read  from  it  again." 

The  gate-keeper  rose  and  went  to  his  cabinet. 

"The  wish  is  easiiy  gratified,"  he  said.  "I  made  a 
copy  of.  it, — partly  for  security,  partly  that  I  might 
thoroughly  enter  into  my  brother's  thoughts." 

"  I  wonder  almost  you  lend  the  original  then,"  said 
Wingfold. 

"  I  certainly  could  not  lend  the  copy  to  any  man  I 
could  not  trust  with  the  original,"  answered  Polwarth. 
"  But  I  never  lent  either  before." — He  was  turning  over 
the  leaves  as  he  spoke. — "  The  passage,"  he  went  on, 
"besides  for  its  own  worth,  is  precious  to  me  as  show- 
ing how,  through  all  his  madness,  his  thoughts  haunted 
the  gates  of  wisdom. — Ah  I  here  it  is  ! 

'"About  this  time  I  had  another  strange  vision, 
whether  in  the  body  or  out  of  the  body,  I  cannot  tell. 
I  thought,  as  oftener  than  once  before,  that  at  length  I 
was  dying.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  did  die  and 
awake  to  the  consciousness  of  a  blessed  freedom  from 
the  coarser  and  more  ponderous  outer  dress  I  had  hith^ 
erto  worn,  being  now  clad  only  in  what  had  been  up  to 
this  time  an  inner  garment,  and  was  a  far  more  closely 
fitting  one.  The  first  delight  of  which  I  was  aware  was 
coolness — a  coolness  that  hurt  me  not — the  coolness  as 
of  a  dewy  summer  eve,  in  which  a  soft  friendly  wind  is 
blowing;  and  the  coolness  was  that  of  perfect  well- 
being,  of  the  health  that  cometh  after  fever,  when  a 
sound  sleep  hath  divided  it  away  and  built  a  rampart 


WHAT    HELEN    HEARD    MORE.  639 

between  ;  the  coolness  of  undoubted  truth,  and  of  love 
that  hath  surmounted  passion  and  is  tenfold  love.' 

"  He  goes  on  to  give  further  and  fuller  account  of  his 
sensations, — ventures  even  on  the  anticipated  futility  of 
an  attempt  to  convey  a  notion  of  one  of  his  new  senses. 
1  leave  all  that  for  your  own  reading,  Mr.  Wingfold 

"  *  But  where  was  I  ?  That  I  could  not  tell.  /  ain 
here  was  all  I  could  say  ;  but  then  what  more  could  I 
ever  have  said  ? — Gradually  my  sight  came  to  me,  or 
the  light  of  the  country  arose,  I  could  not  tell  which, 
and  behold,  1  was  in  the  midst  of  a  paradise,  gorgeous 
yet  gracious,  to  describe  which  I  find  no  words  in  the 
halting  tongues  of  earth,  and  I  know  something  of 
them  all,  most  of  them  well.  If  I  say  a  purple  sea  was 
breaking  in  light  on  an  emerald  shore,  the  moment  the 
words  are  written,  I  see  them  coarse  and  crude  as  a 
boy's  first  attempt  at  landscape  ;  yet  are  there  no  better 
wherewith  to  tell  what  first  filled  my  eyes  with  heav- 
enly delight.  *  *  * 

" '  The  inhabitants  were  many,  but  nowhere  were 
they  crowded.  There  was  room  in  abundance  and  wild 
places  seemed  to  be  held  sacred  for  solitude.' 

"  I  am  only  picking  up  a  sentence  here  and  there,  as  I 
hasten  to  the  particular  point,"  said  Polwarth,  looking 
down  the  page. 

"  '  But  the  flowers  !  and  the  birds  !  and  above  all  the 
beauty  of  the   people  !     And  they  dwelt  in   harmony. 
Yet  on  their  foreheads  lay  as  it  seemed  a  faint  mist,  or 
as  it  were  the  first  of  a  cloud  of  coming  disquiet. 
******* 

"  '  And  I  prayed  him,  Tell  me,  sir,  whither  shall  I  go 


640  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


to  find  God  and  say  unto  him,  Lo,  here  I  am  !  And  he 
answered  and  said  to  me,  Sir,  I  but  dimly  know  what 
thou  meanest.  Say  further.  And  I  stood  for  an  hour, 
even  as  one  astonished.  Then  said  I,  All  my  long  life 
on  the  world  whence  I  came,  I  did  look  to  find  God 

when  death  should  take  me.    But  lo,  now And  with 

that  my  heart  smote  me,  for  in  my  former  life  I  had 
oftentimes  fallen  into  unbelief  and  denied  God  :  was 
this  now  my  punishment — that  I  should  never  find 
him  ?  And  my  heart  grew  cold  in  my  body,  and  the 
blood  curdled  therein.  Then  the  man  answered  and 
said,  It  is  true  that  in  generations  past,  for  so  I  read  in 
our  ancient  books,  men  did  believe  in  one  above  them 
and  in  them,  who  had  wrought  them  to  that  they  were, 
and  was  working  them  to  better  still  ;  but  whether  it 
be  that  we  have  now  gained  that  better,  and  there  is 
nothing  higher  unto  which  we  may  look,  therefore  no 
need  of  the  high  one,  I  know  not,  but  truly  we  have 
long  ceased  so  to  believe,  and  have  learned  that  as 
things  are,  so  they  have  been,  and  so  they  shall  be. 
Then  fell  as  it  were  a  cold  stone  into  the  core  of  my 
heart,  and  I  questioned  him  no  farther,  for  I  bore  death 
in  my  heart,  even  as  a  woman  carrieth  her  unborn  child. 
No  God  !  I  cried,  and  sped  away  into  a  solitude  and 
shrieked  a'loud.  No  God  !  Nay,  but  ere  I  believe  it,  I 
will  search  through  all  creation,  and  cry  aloud  as  I  go. 

I  will  search  until  I  find  him,  and  if  I  find  him  not, . 

With  that  my  soul  would  have  fainted  in  me,  had  I  not 
spread  forth  my  wings  and  rushed  aloft  to  find  him. 

******* 
" '  For  the   more  lovely  anything   I   saw,  the   more 


WHAT   HELEN   H'CARD   MORE.  64I 

gracious  in  color  or  form,  or  the  more  marvellous  in 
the  law  of  its  working,  ever  a  fresh  pang  shot  to  my 
heart :  if  that  which  I  had  heard  should  prove  true, 
then  was  there  no  Love  such  ar  seemed  to  me  to  dwell 
therein,  the  soul  of  its  beauty,  and  all  the  excellence 
thereof,  was  but  a  delusion  of  "ny  own  heart,  greedy 
after  a  phantom-perfection.  No  God  !  no  Love  !  no 
loveliness,  save  a  ghastly  semblarce  thereof  !  and  the 
more  ghastly,  that  it  was  so  like  lo;-€liness  and  yet  was 
not  to  be  loved  upon  peril  of  pr")rtitution  of  spirit. 
Then  in  truth  was  heaven  a  fable,  and  hell  an  all- 
embracing  fact !  For  my  very  being  knew  in  itself  that 
if  it  would  dwell  in  peace,  the  very  atmcsphere  in  which 
it  lived  and  moved  and  breathed  must  be  love,  living 
love,  a  one  divine  presence,  truth  to  itself.,  and  love  to 
me,  and  to  all  them  that  needed  love,  down  to  the 
poorest  that  can  but  need  it,  and  knoweth  i*^.not  when 
it  cometh.  I  knew  that  if  love  was  not  all  in  all,  in  fact 
as  well  as  in  imagination,  my  life  was  but  a  dreary 
hollow  made  in  the  shape  of  a  life,  and  therefcre  for- 
ever hungry  and  never  to  be  satisfied.  And  again  I 
spread  wings— no  longer  as  it  seemed  of  hope,  but 
wings  of  despair,  yet  mighty,  and  flew.  And  I  learned 
thereafter  that  despair  is  but  the  hidden  side  of  hope.' 

"  Here  follow  pages  of  his  wanderings  in  quest  of  God. 
He  tells  how  and  where  he  inquired  and  sought, 
searching  into  the  near  and  minute  as  earnestly  as  into 
the  far  and  vast,  watching  at  the  very  pores  of  being, 
and  sitting  in  the  gates  of  the  mighty  halls  of  assembly 
—but  all  in  vain.     No  God  was  to  be  found. 


642  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

"'And  it  seemed  to  me,'  he  says  at  last,  'that,  as  I 
had  been  the  wanderer  of  earth,  so  was  I  now  doomed 
to  be  the  wanderer  of  heaven.  On  earth  I  wandered  to 
find  death,  and  men  called  me  the  everlasting  Jew  ;  in 
heaven  I  wandered  to  find  God,  and  what  name  would 
they  give  me  now  ?  *  *  * 

•"At  last  my  heart  sank  within  me  w^holly,  and  I 
folded  my  wings  and  through  years  I  also  sank  and 
sank,  and  alighted  at  length  upon  the  place  appointed 
for  my  habitation — that  namely  wherein  I  found  myself 
first  after  death.  And  alighting  there,  I  fell  down  weary 
and  slept. 

"' And  when  I  awoke  I  turned  upon  my  side  in  the 
despair  of  a  life  that  was  neither  in  my  own  power  nor 
in  that  of  one  who  was  the  Father  of  me,  which  life 
therefore  was  an  evil  thing  and  a  tyrant  unto  me.  And 
lo  !  there  by  my  side  I  beheld  a  lily  of  the  field  such  as 
grew  on  the  wayside  in  the  old  times  betwixt  Jerusalem 
and  Bethany.  Never  since  my  death  had  I  seen  such, 
and  my  heart  awoke  within  me,  and  I  wept  bitter  tears 
that  nothing  should  be  true,  nothing  be  that  which  it 
had  seemed  in  the  times  of  old.  And  as  I  wept  I  heard 
a  sound  as  of  the  falling  of  many  tears,  and  I  looked, 
and  lo  a  shower  as  from  a  watering-pot  falling  upon  the 
lily  I  Aod  I  looked  yet  again,  and  I  saw  the  watering- 
pot,  and  the  hand  that  held  it ;  and  he  whose  hand  held 
the  pot  stood  by  me  and  looked  at  me  as  he  watered 
the  lily.  He  was  a  man  like  the  men  of  the  world 
where  such  lilies  grow,  and  was  poorly  dressed,  and 
seemed  like  a  gardener.    And  I  looked  up  in  his  face. 


WHAT   HELEN  HEARD   MORE.  643 

and  lo — the  eyes  of  the  Lord  Jesus  !  And  my  heart 
swelled  until  it  filled  my  whole  body  and  my  head,  and 
I  gave  a  great  cry,  and  for  joy  that  turned  into  agony  I 
could  not  rise,  neither  could  I  speak,  but  I  crept  on  my 
hands  and  my  knees  to  his  feet,  and  there  I  fell  down 
upon  my  face,  and  with  my  hands  I  lifted  one  of  hl<? 
feet  and  did  place  it  upon  my  head,  and  then  I  found 
voice  to  cry,  O  master  !  and  therewith  the  life  departed 
from  me.  And  when  I  came  to  myself,  the  master  sat 
under  the  tree,  and  I  lay  by  his  side,  and  he  had  lifted 
my  head  upon  his  knees.  And  behold,  the  world  was 
jubilant  around  me,  for  Love  was  Love  and  Lord  of  all. 
The  sea  roared,  and  the  fulness  thereof  was  love  ;  and 
the  purple  and  the  gold  and  the  blue  and  the  green 
came  straight  from  the  hidden  red  heart  of  the  Lord 
Jesus.  And  I  closed  my  eyes  for  very  bliss  ;  nor  had 
I  yet  bethought  me  of  the  time  when  first  those  eyes 
looked  upon  me,  for  I  seemed  to  have  known  them 
since  first  I  began  to  be.  But  now  when  for  very  bliss 
I  closed  my  eyes,  my  sin  came  back  to  me,  and  1 
remembered.  And  I  rose  up,  and  kneeled  down  before 
him,  and  said,  O  Lord,  I  am  Ahasuerus,  the  Jew,  the 
man  who  would  not  let  thee  rest  thy  cross  upon  the 
stone  before  my  workshop,  but  drave  thee  from  it.— 
Say  no  more  of  that,  answered  my  Lord,  fqr  truly  I 
have  myself  rested  in  thy  heart,  cross  and  all,  until  the 
thing  thou  diddest  in  thy  ignorance  is  better  than  for- 
gotten, for  it  is  remembered  in  love.  Only  see  thou 
also  make  right  excuse  for  my  brethren  who,  like  thee 
then,  know  not  now  what  they  do.     Come  and  I  will 


644  THOMAS    VVINGFOLD,   CURATE. 

bring  thee  to  the  woman  who  died  for  thee  in  the 
burning  fire.  And  I  said,  O  Lord  leave  me  not,  for 
although  I  would  now  in  my  turn  right  gladly  die  for 
her,  yet  would  I  not  look  upon  that  woman  again  if  the 
love  of  her  would  make  me  love  thee  one  hair  the  less — 
thou  knowest.  And  the  Lord  smiled  upon  me  and  said, 
Fear  not,  Ahasuerus  ;  my  love  infolds  and  is  the  nest  of 
all  love.  I  fear  not ;  fear  thou  not  either.  And  I  arose 
and  followed  him.  And  every  tree  and  flower,  yea 
every  stone  and  cloud,  with  the  whole  earth  and  sea 
and  air,  were  full  of  God,  even  the  living  God — so  that 
now  I  could  have  died  of  pure  content.  And  I  followed 
my  Lord.  *  *  *  * '  " 

The  gate-keeper  was  silent,  and  so  were  they  all.  At 
length  Rachel  rose  softly,  wiping  the  tears  from  her 
eyes,  and  left  the  room.  But  she  found  no  one  in  the 
closet.  Helen  was  already  hastening  across  the  park, 
weeping  as  she  went. 


CHAPTER  XCVI. 

THE    curate's    resolve. 


^  c^HHE  next  day  was  Sunday. 

5|  ^iJ  Twelve  months  had  not  yet  elapsed  since 
the  small  events  with  which  my  narrative 
opened.  The  change  which  had  passed, 
not  merely  upon  the  opinions,  but  in  the  heart  and 
mind  and  very  being  of  the  curate,  had  not  then 
begun  to  appear  even  to  himself,  although  its  roots 
were  not  only  deep  in  him  but  deep  beyond  him, 
even  in  the  source  of  him  ;  and  now  he  was  in  a 
state  of  mind,  a  state  of  being,  rather,  of  whose  nature 
at  that  time  he  had  not,  and  could  not  have  had, 
the  faintest  fore-feeling,  the  most  shadowy  concep- 
tion. It  had  been  a  season  of  great  trouble,  but  the 
gain  had  been  infinitely  greater;  for  now  were  the 
bonds  of  the  finite  broken,  he  had  burst  the  shell  of  the 
mortal,  and  was  of  those  over  whom  the  second  death 
hath  no  power.  The  agony  of  the  second  birth  was 
past,  and  he  was  a  child  again — only  a  child,  he  knew, 
but  a  child  of  the  kingdom  ;  and  the  world,  and  all  that 


646  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

God  cared  about  in  it,  was  his,  as  no  miser's  gold  could 
ever  belong  to  its  hoarder,  while  the  created  universe, 
yea  and  the  uncreated  also  whence  it  sprung,  lay  open 
to  him  in  the  boundless  free-giving  of  the  original 
Thought.  "All  things  are  yours,  and  ye  are  Christ's, 
and  Christ  is  God's  :"  he  understood  the  words  even  as 
he  who  said  them  understood  them,  and  as  the  wise  of 
this  world  never  will  understand  them  until  first  they 
become  fools  that  they  may  be  wise. 

At  the  same  time  a  great  sorrow  threatened  him  from 
the  no  less  mysterious  region  of  his  relations  to  humani- 
ty ;  but  if  that  region  and  its  most  inexplicable  cares 
were  beyond  the  rule  of  the  Life  that  dwelt  in  him, 
then  was  that  Life  no  true  God,  and  the  whole  thing 
was  false ;  for  he  loved  Helen  with  a  love  that  was  no 
invention  or  creation  of  his  own,  and  if  not  his,  then 
whose?  Certainly  not  of  one  who,  when  it  threatened 
to  overwhelm  him,  was  unable  to  uphold  him  under  it  ! 
This  thing  also  belonged  to  the  God  of  his  being.  A 
poor  God  must  he  be  for  men  or  women  who  did  not 
care  about  the  awful  things  involved  in  the  relation 
between  them  !  Therefore  even  in  his  worst  anxieties 
about  Helen,-.-!  do  not  mean  in  his  worst  seasons  of 
despair  at  the  thought  of  never  gainmg  her  love — he 
had  never  yet  indeed  consciously  regarded  the  winning 
of  her  as  a  possibility— but  at  those  times  when  he 
most  plainly  saw  her  the  submissive  disciple  of  George 
Bascombe,  and  the  two  seemed  to  his  fancy  to  be  stray- 
ing away  together  "  into  a  wide  field,  full  gf  dark  moun- 
tains ;"  when   he  saw  her,  so  capable  of  the  noblest. 


THE  curate's   resolve.  647 

submitting  her  mind  to  the  entrance  of  the  poorest, 
meanest,  shabbiest  theories  01  Vile,  and  taking  for  her 
guide  one  who  could  lead  her  to  no  conscious  well- 
being,  or  make  provision  for  sustainment  when  the  ^ 
time  of  suffering  and  anxiety  should  come,  or  the  time 
of  health  and  strength  be  over  when  yet  she  must  live 
on  ;  when  he  saw  her  adopting  a  system  of  things 
whose  influence  would  shrivel  up  instead  of  developing 
her  faculties,  crush  her  imagination  with  such  a  moun- 
tain weight  as  was  never  piled  above  Titan,  and  dwarf 
the  whole  divine  woman  within  her  to  the  size  and  con- 
dition of  an  Aztec — even  then  was  he  able  to  reason 
with  himself:  "  She  belongs  to  God,  not  to  me;  and 
God  loves  her  better  than  ever  I  could  love  her.  If  she 
should  set  out  with  her  blind  guide,  it  will  be  but  a  first 
day's  journey  she  will  go — through  marshy  places  and 
dry  sands,  across  the  far  breadth  of  which  lo  !  the  blue 
mountains  that  shelter  the  high  vales  of  sweetness  and 
peace."  And  with  this  he  not  only  tried  to  comfort 
himself,  but  succeeded— I  do  not  say  to  contentment, 
but  to  quiet.  Contentment,  which,  whatever  its  imme- 
diate shape,  to  be  contentment  at  all.  must  be  the  will 
of  God,  lay  beyond.  Alas  that  men  can  not  believe  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  *'  that  good  and  acceptable  and  perfect 
will  of  God  !*'  To  those  that  do  believe  it,  it  is  the 
rejoicing  of  a  conscious  deliverance. 

And  now  this  Sunday.  Wingfold  entered  the  pulpit, 
prepared  at  last  to  utter  his  resolve.  Happily  nothing 
nad  been  done  to  introduce  the  confusing  element  of 
another   will.     The   bishop  had   heard  nothing  of  the 


648  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 

matter,  and  if  anything  had  reached  the  rector  he  had 
not  spoken.  Not  one  of  the  congregation,  not  even 
Mrs,  Ramshorn,  had  hinted  to  him  that  he  ought  to 
resign.  It  had  been  left  altogether  with  himself.  And 
now  he  would  tell  them  the  decision  to  which  the 
thought  he  had  taken  had  conducted  him.  I  will  give 
a  portion  of  his  sermon — enough  to  show  us  how  he 
showed  the  congregation  the  slate  of  his  mind  in  refer- 
ence to  the  grand  question,  and  the  position  he  took  in 
relation  to  his  hearers. 

"  It  is  time,  my  hearers,"  he  said,  "because  it  is  now 
possible  to  bring  to  a  close  that  uncertainty  with 
regard  to  the  continuance  of  our  relation  to  each  other, 
which  I  was,  in  the  spring-time  of  the  year,  compelled 
by  mental  circumstance  to  occasion.  I  then  forced 
myself,  for  very  dread  of  the  honesty  of  an  all-knowing 
God,  to  break  through  every  convention  of  the  church 
and  pulpit,  and  speak  to  you  of  my  most  private  affairs. 
I  told  you  that  I  was  sure  of  not  one  of  those  things 
concerning  which  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  a  clergyman 
must  be  satisfied  ;  but  that  I  would  not  at  once  yield 
my  office,  lest  in  that  act  I  should  seem  to  declare 
unbelief  of  many  a  thing  which  even  then  I  desired  to 
find  true.  In  leaving  me  undisturbed  either  by  com- 
plaint, expostulation,  or  proffered  instruction,  you,  my 
hearers,  have  granted  me  the  leisure  of  which  I  stood 
in  need.  Meantime  I  have  endeavored  to  show  you  the 
best  I  saw,  while  yet  I  dared  not  say  I  was  sure  of  any- 
thing. I  have  thus  kept  you,  those  at  least  who  cared 
to  follow  my  path,  acquainted  with   my  mental  history. 


THE  curate's   resolve.  649 

And   now  I  come  to  tell  you  the   practical   result  at 
which  I  have  arrived. 

"  But  when  I  say  that  I  will  not  forsake  my  curac}', 
still  less  my  right  and  duty  to  teach  whatever  I  seem  to 
know,  I  must  not  therein  convey  the  impression  that  I 
have  attained  that  conviction  and  assurance  the  discov- 
ery of  the  absence  of  which  was  the  cause  of  the  whole 
uncertain  proceeding.  All  I  now  say  is,  that  in  the 
story  of  Jesus  I  have  beheld  such  grandeur — to  me 
apparently  altogether  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
invention,  such  a  radiation  of  divine  loveliness  and 
truth,  such  hope  for  man,  soaring  miles  above  every 
possible  pitfall  of  Fate  ;  and  have  at  the  same  time,  from 
the  endeavor  to  obey  the  word  recorded  as  his,  experi- 
enced such  a  conscious  enlargement  of  mental  faculty, 
such  a  deepening  of  moral  strength,  such  an  enhance- 
ment of  ideal,  such  an  increase  of  faith,  hope,  and  char- 
ity towards  all  men,  that  I  now  declare  with  the 
consent  of  my  whole  man — I  cast  in  my  lot  with  the 
servants  of  the  Crucified  ;  I  am  content  even  to  share 
their  delusion,  if  delusion  it  be,  for  it  is  the  truth  of  the 
God  of  men  to  me  ;  I  will  stand  or  fall  with  the  story  of 
my  Lord ;  I  will  take  my  chance — I  speak  not  in  irreve- 
rence but  in  honesty — my  chance  of  failure  or  success 
in  regard  to  whatever  may  follow  in  this  life  or  the  life 
to  come,  if  there  be  a  life  to  come — on  the  words  and 
will  of  the'  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  whom  if,  impressed  as  I 
am  with  the  truth  of  his  nature,  the  absolute  devotior^ 
of  his  life,  and  the  essential  might  of  his  b)eing.  I  yet 
obey  not,  I  shall  not  only  deserve  to  perish,  but  in  that 


650  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

very  refusal  draw  ruin  upon  my  head.  Before  God  I 
say  it — I  would  rather  be  crucified  with  that  nran,  so  it 
might  be  as  a  disciple  and  not  as  a  thief  that  creeps,  in- 
trudes, or  climbs  into  the  fold,  than  I  would  reign  with 
him  over  such  a  kingdom  of  grandeur  as  would  have 
satisfied  the  imagination  and  love-ambition  of  his 
mother.  On  such  grounds  as  these  I  hope  I  am  justified 
in  declaring  myself  a  disciple  of  the  Son  of  Man,  and  in 
devoting  my  life  and  the  renewed  energy  and  enlarged, 
yea  infinite  hope  which  he  has  given  me,  to  his  brothers 
and  sisters  of  my  race,  that  if  possible  I  may  gain  some 
to  be  partakers  of  the  blessedness  of  my  hope.  Hence- 
forth I  am  not  i7i  holy  orders,  I  reject  the  phrase  in  all 
its  professional  vulgarity,  but  tinder  holy  orders,  even 
the  orders  of  Christ  Jesus,  which  is  the  law  of  liberty, 
the  law  whose  obedience  alone  can  set  a  man  free  from 
in-burrowir^g  slavery. 

"  And  if  any  man  yet  say  that,  because  of  my  lack  of 
absolute  assurance,  I  have  no  right  to  the  sacred  post, 
— Let  him,  I  answer,  who  has  been  assailed  by  such 
doubts  as  mine,  and  from  the  citadel  of  his  faith  sees 
no  more  one  lingering  shadow  of  a  foe — let  him  cast  at 
me  the  first  stone  !  Vain  challenge  !  for  such  an  one  will 
never  cast  stone  at  man  or  woman.  But  let  not  him 
whose  belief  is  but  the  absence  of  doubt,  who  has  never 
loved  enough  that  which  he  thinks  he  believes  to  have 
felt  a  single  fear  lest  it  should  not  be  true— let  not  that 
man,  I  say,  cast  at  me  pebble  from  the  brook,  or 
cloven  rock  from  the  mount  of  the  law,  for  either  will 
fall   hurtless  at  my  feet.     Friends,  I  have  for  the  last 


THE  curate's  resolve.  65 1 

time  spoken  of  myself  in  this  place.  Ye  have  borne 
with  me  in  my  trials,  and  I  thank  you.  Those  who 
have  not  only  borne  but  suffered,  and  do  now  rejoice 
with  me,  I  thank  tenfold.     I  have  done — 

**  Save  for  one  word  to  the  Christians  of  this  congre- 
gation : 

"The  waves  of  infidelity  are  coming  in  with  a  strong 
wind  and  a  flowing  tide.  Who  is  to  blame.'*  God  it 
can  not  be,  and  for  unbelievers,  they  are  as  they  were. 
It  is  the  Christians  who  are  to  blame.  I  do  not  mean 
those  who  are  called  Christians,  but  those  who  call  and 
count  themselves  Christians.  I  tell  you,  and  I  speak  to 
each  one  of  whom  it  is  true,  that  you  hold  and  present 
such  a  withered,  starved,  miserable,  death's-head  idea  of 
Christianity;  that  you  are  yourself  such  poverty- 
stricken  believers,  if  believers  you  are  at  all  ;  that  the 
notion  you  present  to  the  world  as  your  ideal,  is  so 
common-place,  so  false  to  the  grand,  gracious,  mighty- 
hearted  Jesus — that  you  are  the  cause  why  the  truth 
hangs  its  head  in  patieiKe,  and  rides  not  forth  on 
the  white  horse,  conquering  and  to  conquer.  Vou  dull 
its  lustre  in  the  eyes  of  men  ;  you  deform  its  fair  pro- 
portions ;  you  represent  not  that  which  it  is,  but  that 
which  it  is  not,  yet  call  yourselves  by  its  name ;  you  are 
not  the  salt  of  the  earth,  but  a  salt  that  has  lost  its 
savor,  for  ye  seek  all  things  else  first,  and  to  that  seek- 
ing the  kingdom  of  God  and  his  righteousness  shall 
never  be  added.  Until  you  repent  and  believe  afresh, 
believe  in  a  nobler  Christ,  namely  the  Christ  revealed 
by   himself,   and    not   the    muffled    form  of  something 


652  THOMAS  WINGFOLD,  CURATE. 


vaguely  human  and  certainly  not  all  divine,  which  the 
false  interpretations  of  men  have  substituted  for  him, 
you  will  be  as,  I  repeat,  you  are,  the  main  reason  why 
faith  is  so  scanty  in  the  earth,  and  the  enemy  comes  in 
like  a  flood.  For  the  sake  of  the  progress  of  the  truth, 
and  that  into  nobler  minds  than  yours,  it  were  better 
you  joined  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  and  declared  what  I 
fear  with  many  of  you  is  the  fact,  that  you  believe 
not  at  all.  But  whether  in  some  sense  you  believe  or 
not,  the  fact  remains,  that,  while  you  are  not  of  those 
Christians  who  obey  the  word  of  the  master,  doing  the 
things  he  says  to  them,  you  are  of  those  Christians,  if 
you  will  be  called  by  the  name,  to  whom  he  will  say,  / 
never  knew  you :  go  forth  into  the  outer  darkness.  Then,  at 
least,  will  the  church  be  rid  of  you,  and  the  honest 
doubter  will  have  room  to  breathe  the  divine  air  of  the 
presence  of  Jesus. 

"  But  oh  what  unspeakable  bliss  of  heart  and  soul  and 
mind  and  sense  remains  for  him  who  like  St.  Paul  is 
crucified  with  Christ,  who  lives  no  more  from  his  own 
self,  but  is  inspired  and  informed  and  possessed  with 
the  same  faith  towards  the  Father  in  which  Jesus  lived 
nnd  wrought  the  will  of  the  Father  .'  If  the  words 
attributed  to  Jesus  are  indeed  the  words  of  him  whom 
Jesus  declared  himself,  then  truly  is  the  fate  of  man- 
kind a  glorious  one, — and  that,  first  and  last,  because 
men  have  a  God  supremely  grand,  all- perfect  in  God- 
head ;  for  that  is,  and  that  alone  can  be,  the  absolute 
bliss  of  the  created." 


CHAPTER  XCVII. 


HELEN    AWAKE. 


HAT  Sunday-dinner  was  a  very  quiet  meal. 
An  old  friend  of  Mrs.  Ramshorn,  a  lady- 
ecclesiastic  like  herself,  dined  with  them  . 
what  the  two  may  have  said  to  each  other  in 
secret  conclave,  1  can  not  tell,  but  not  a  word  of  remark 
upon  Mr.  Wingfold  or  his  sermon  was  heard  at  table. 

As  she  was  leaving  the  room,  Bascombe  whispered 
Helen  to  put  on  something  and  come  to  him  in  the 
garden.  Helen  glanced  at  the  window  as  if  doubtful. 
It  was  cold,  but  the  sun  was  shining  ;  the  weather  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it;  she  had  but  taken  a  moment  to 
think.  She  pressed  her  lips  together — and  consented. 
George  saw  she  would  rather  not  go,  but  he  set  it  down 
to  a  sisterly  unwillingness  to  enjoy  herself  when  her 
brother  could  no  longer  behold  the  sun,  and  such  mere 
sentiment  must  not  be  encouraged. 

When  the  cypresses  and  box-trees  had  come  betwixt, 
them   and  the   house,  he   offered   his  arm,   but  Helen 
preferred  being  free.     She  did  not  refuse  to  go  into  the 
summer-house  with  him  ;  but  she  took  her  place  on  the 


654  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

opposite  side  of  the  little  table.     George  however  spied 
no  hint  of  approaching  doom. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  alter  my  opinion  of  that 
curate,"  he  said,  as  he  seated  himself.  "There  was  so 
much  in  him  that  I  took  to  promise  well.  But  old 
habit,  the  necessities  of  existence,  and  the  fear  of 
society  have  been  too  much  for  him — as  they  will  al- 
ways be  for  most  men.  He  has  succumbed  at  last,  and 
I  am  sorry  !  I  did  think  he  was  going  to  turn  out  an 
honest  man  !" 

"And  you  have  come  to  the  certain  conclusion  that 
he  is  not  an  honest  2rvan,  George  }" 

•'  Assuredly." 

"  Why  r 

"  Because  he  gors  on  to  teach  what  he  confesses  he 
is  not  sure  about^" 

"  He  professes  to  be  sure  that  it  is  better  than  any- 
thing he  is  sure  about. — You  teach  me  there  is  no  God  ; 
are  you  absolutely  certain  there  is  not }" 

"  Yes  ;  absolutely  certain." 

"  On  what  grounds  T' 

"  On  grounds  I  have  set  forth  to  you  twenty 
times,  Helen,  dear,"  answered  George  a  little  impatient- 
ly. "  I  am  not  inclined  to  talk  about  them  now. — I  can 
no  more  believe  in  a  god  than  in  a  dragon." 

"  And  yet  a  dragon  was  believable  to  the  poets  that 
made  our  old  ballads  ;  and  now  geology  reveals  that 
some  such  creatures  did  at  one  time  actually  exist." 

"  Ah  !  you  turn  the  tables  on  me  there,  Helen  !  I 
confess  my  parallel  a  false  one." 


HELEN   AWAKE.  655 


"A  truer  one  than  you  think,  perhaps,"  said  Helen. 
"That  a  thing  should  seem  absurd  to  one  man,  or  to  a 
thousand  men,  will  not  make  it  absurd  in  its  own  na- 
ture ;  and  men  as  good  and  as  clever  as  you,  George, 
have  in  all  ages  believed  in  a  God.  Only  their  notion  of 
God  may  have  been  different  from  yours.  Perhaps 
their  notion  was  a  believable  one,  while  yours  is  not." 

"  By  Jove,  Helen  !  you've  got  on  with  your  logic.  I 
feel  quite  flattered  !  So  far  as  I  am  aware  you  have  had 
no  tutor  in  that  branch  but  myself !  You'll  soon  be 
too  much  for  your  master,  by  Jove  !" 

Like  the  pied  piper,  Helen  smiled  a  little  smile. 
But  she  said  seriously, 

**  Well,  George,  all  I  have  to  suggest  is — What  if, 
after  all  your  inability  to  believe  it,  things  should  at 
last  prove,  even  to  your — satisfaction,  shall  I  say  } — that 
there  is  a  God?" 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  a  bit  about  it,  Helen,"  re- 
turned George,  whose  mind  was  full  of  something  else, 
to  introduce  which  he  was  anxiously  and  heedlessly 
clearing  the  way  ;  "  I  am  prepare.d  to  take  my  chance, 
and  all  I  care  about  is  whether  you  "will  take  your 
chance  with  me.    Helen,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  soul. 

"  Oh  !  you  have  a  soul  then,  George  ?  I  thought  you 
hadn't !" 

"  It  ts  a  foolish  form  of  speech,  no  doubt,"  returned 
Bascombe,  a  little  disconcerted,  as  was  natural.  "  But  to 
be  serious,  Helen,  I  do  love  you." 

"  How  long  will  you  love  me  if  I  tell  you  I  don't  love 
you  .^" 


656  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE 

"  Really,  Helen,  I  don't  see  how  to  answer  such  a 
question.  I  don't  understand  you  at  all  to-day  !  Have 
I  offended  you  ?  I  am  very  sorry  if  I  have,  but  I  am 
quite  in  the  dark  as  to  when  or  where  or  how." 

"Tell  me  then,"  said  Helen,  heedless  of  his  evident 
annoyance  and  discomfort,  "  how  long  will  you  love  me 
if  I  love  you  in  return  ?" 

"  Forever  and  ever." 

"Another  form  of  speech  .^" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  well  enough.  I  shall  love 
you  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  George,  I  never  could  love  a  man  who  believed  I 
was  going  to  die  forever." 

"  But,  Helen,"  pleaded  Bascombe,  "  if  it  can't  be 
helped,  you  know  !" 

"  But  you  are  content  it  should  be  so.  You  believe  it 
willingly.  You  scoff  at  any  hint  of  a  possible  immor- 
tality." 

"Well,  but,  Helen,  what  difference  can  it  make 
between  you  ijnd  me  .''"  returned  George,  whom  the  dan- 
ger of  losing  her  had  rendered  for  the  moment  indiffer- 
ent even  to  his  most  cherished  theory.  "  If  there 
should  be  anything  afterwards,  of  course  I  should  go 
on  loving  you  to  the  very  extreme  of  the  possible." 

"  While  now  you  don't  love  me  enough  to  wish  I  may 
live  and  not  die  !  Leaving  that  out  of  view,  however, 
it  makes  all  the  difference  to  the  love  I  should  have  to 
expect  of  you.  It  may  be  only  a  whim — I  can  prove 
nothing  any  more  than  you — but  I  have  a — whim  then — 
to  be  loved  as  an  immortal  woman,  the  child  of  a  living 


HELEN   AWAKE.  657 


God,  and  not  as  a  helpless  bastard  of  Nature!  I  beg 
your  pardon — I  forget  my  manners." 

That  a  lady  should  utter  such  a  word  ! — and  that  lady 
Helen  ! — George  was  shocked.  Coming  on  the  rest,  it 
absolutely  bewildered  him.  He  sat  silent  perforce, 
Helen  saw  it  and  yielded  to  a  moment's  annoyance  with 
herself,  but  presently  resumed  : 

"  I  have  given  you  the  advantage,  George,  and 
wronged  myself.  But  I  don't  care  much.  I  shall  only 
take  the  better  courage  to  speak  my  mind. — You  come 
askmg  me  to  love  you,  and  my  brother  lying  moulder- 
ing in  the  earth — all  there  is  of  him,  you  tell  me  !  If 
you  believed  he  was  alive  still,  and  I  should  find  him 
again  some  day,  there  would  be  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  speak  of  love  even  now  ;  for  where  does 
any  one  need  love  more  than  at  the  brink  of  the  grave  } 
But  to  come  talking  of  love  to  me,  with  the  same  voice 
that  has  but  just  been  teaching  me  that  the  grave  is 
the  end  of  all,  and  my  brother  gone  down  into  it  forever 
— I  tell  you,  cousin— I  must  say  it — it  seems  to  me  hardly 
decent.  For  me  at  least — I  will  fiot  be  loved  with  the 
love  that  can  calmly  accept  such  a  fate.  And  I  will 
never  love  any  man,  believing  that,  if  I  outlive  him, 
my  love  must  thereafter  be  but  a  homeless  torrent, 
falling  ever  into  a  bottomless  abyss.  Why  should  I 
make  of  my  heart  a  roaring  furnace  of  regrets  and  self 
accusations  ?  The  memory  of  my  brother  is  for  me 
enough.  Let  me  keep  what  freedom  is  possible  to  me  ;  let 
me  rather  live  the  life  of  a  cold-blooded  animal,  and  die 
in  the  ice  that  gathers  about  me.   But  before  I  sit  down 


658  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

to  await  such  an  end,  I  shall  know  whether  I  am  indeed 
compelled  to  believe  as  you  do  that  there  is  no  God,  that 
Death  is  my  lord  and  master,  that  he  will  take  me  as  he 
has  taken  my  brother  and  yet  I  shall  never  see  him 
more.  No,  cousin  George,  I  need  a  God  ;  and  if  there 
be  none  how  did  I  come  to  need  one  ?  Yes,  I  know 
you  think  you  can  explain  it  all,  but  the  way  you 
account  for  it  is  just  as  miserable  as  what  you  would  put 
in  its  place.  lam  not  complete  in  myself  like  you.  I 
am  not  able  to  live  without  a  God.  I  will  seek  him  until 
I  find  him,  or  drop  into  the  abyss  where  all  question 
and  answer  ceases.  Then  in  the  end  I  shall  be  no 
worse  than  you  would  have  me  at  the  beginning — no, 
it  will  be  nothing  so  bad,  for  then  I  shall  not  know  my 
misery  as  you  would  have  me  know  it  now.  If  we  are 
creatures  of  nothing,  in  spite  of  all  the  outcry  of  our 
souls  against  that  fate,  what  mighty  matter  is  it  if,  thus 
utterly  befooled  of  Nature,  we  should  also  a  little  fool 
ourselves,  by  believing  in  a  lovely  hope  that  looks  like 
R  promise,  and  seems  as  if  it  ought  to  be  true  ?  How 
can  a  devotion  to  the  facts  of  her  existence  be  required 
of  one  whose  nature  has  been  proved  to  her  a  lie  ? — 
You  speak  from  the  facts  of  your  nature,  George ;  I 
speak  from  the  facts  of  mine." 

Helen  had  come  awake  aft  last !  It  would  have  suited 
George  better  had  she  remained  a  half-quickened 
statue,  responsive  only  to  himself,  her  not  over-potent 
Pygmalion.  He  sat  speechless— with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her. 

"  You   need  no  God,"  she  went  on,   "  therefore  you 


HELEN   AWAKE.  659 


seek  none.  If  you  need  none,  you  are  right  to  seek 
none,  I  dare  say.  But  I  need  a  God — ^oh,  I  can  not  tell 
how  I  need  him,  if  he  be  to  be  found  I  and  by  the  same 
reasoning  I  will  give  my  life  to  the  search  for  him.  To 
the  last  I  will  go  on  seeking  him,  for  if  once  I  give 
in,  and  confess  there  is  no  God,  I  shall  go  mad — mad, 
and  perhaps  kill  somebody  like  poor  Poldie.  George, 
I  have  said  my  say.  I  would  not  have  come  into  the 
garden  but  to  say  it.     Good-by." 

As  she  spoke  she  rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
him.  But  in  the  tumult  of  more  emotions  than  I  can 
well  name — amongst  the  rest  indignation,  dismay,  dis- 
appointment, pride,  and  chagrin,  he  lost  himself  while 
searching  in  vain  for  words,  paid  no  heed  to  her  move- 
ment, and  lifted  no  hand  to  take  that  she  offered.  With 
head  erect  she  walked  from  the  summer-house. 

-The  love  of  a  life-time! — a  sweet  invitation!"  she 
said  to  herself,  as  with  the  slow  step  of  restrained 
wrath  she  went  up  the  garden. 

George  sat  for  some  minutes  as  she  had  left  him. 
Then  he  broice  the  silence  in  his  own  ears  and  said, 

'i  Well,  I'm  damned  !" 

And  so  he  was — for  the  time — and  a  very  good  thing 
too,  for  he  required  it. 


CHAPTER  XCVIII. 


THOU    DIDST    NOT    LEAVE. 


HE  next  day  the  curate  found  himself  so  ill  at 
ease,  from  the  reaction  after  excitement  of 
various  kinds,  that  he  determined  to  give 
himself  a  holiday.  His  notion  of  a  holiday 
was  a  very  simple  one  :  a  day  in  a  deep  wood,  if  such 
could  be  had,  with  a  volume  fit  for  alternate  reading 
and  pocketing  as  he  might  feel  inclined.  Of  late  no 
volume  had  been  his  companion  in  any  wanderings  but 
his  New  Testament. 

There  was  a  remnant  of  real  old-fashioned  forest  on 
the  Lythe,  some  distance  up  :  thither  he  went  by  the 
load,  the  shortest  way,  to  return  by  the  winding  course 
of  the  stream.  It  was  a  beautiful  day  of  St.  Martin's 
summer.  In  the  forest,  if  the  leaves  were  gone,  there 
was  the  more  light,  and  sun  and  shadow  played  many  a 
lovely  game.  But  he  saw  them  as  though  he  saw  them 
not,  for  fear  and  hope  struggled  in  his  heart,  and  for  a 
long   time   prayer   itself   could    not    atone    them.     At 


THOU   DIDST   NOT    LEAVE.  66l 

length,  a  calm  fell,  and  he  set  out  to  return  home,  down 
the  bank  of  the  river. 

Many-hued  and  many-shaped  had  been  the  thoughts, 
not  that  came  to  him  from  the  forest,  but  that  he  had  car- 
ried thither  with  him  :  through  all  and  each  of  them, 
ever  and  again  had  come  dawning  the  face  of  Helen,  as 
he  had  seen  it  in  church  the  day  before,  where  she  sat 
between  her  aunt  and  her  cousin,  so  unlike  either. 
For,  to  their  anno\'ance,  she  had  insisted  on  going  to 
church,  and  to  hers  they  had  refused  to  let  her  go 
alone.  And  in  her  face  the  curate  had  seen  something 
he  had  never  seen  there  until  then, — a  wistful  look,  as 
if  now  she  would  be  glad  to  pick  up  any  suitable  crumb 
to  carry  home  with  her.  In  that  dawn  of  coming  child- 
hood, though  he  dared  not  yet  altogether  believe  it 
such,  the  hard  contemptuous  expression  of  Bascombe's 
countenance,  and  the  severe  disapproval  in  Mrs.  Rams- 
horn's,  were  entirely  lost  upon  him. 

All  the  way  down  the  river,  the  sweet  change  haunt- 
ed him.  When  he  got  into  the  park,  and  reached  that 
hollow  betwixt  the  steep  ferny  slopes  where  he  sat  on 
the  day  with  which  my  narrative  opens,  he  seated  him- 
self again  on  the  same  stone,  and  reviewed  the  past 
twelve  months.  This  was  much  such  a  day  as  that, 
only  the  hour  was  different :  it  was  the  setting  sun  that 
now  shone  upon  the  ferns,  and  cast  shadows  from  them 
big  enough  for  oak?.  What  a  change  had  passed  upon 
him  !  That  day  the  New  Testament  had  been  the  book 
of  the  church — this  day  it  was  a  fountain  of  living  wa- 
ters   to    the    man    Thomas    Wingfold.     He    had    not 


662  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

opened  his  Horace  for  six  months.  Great  trouble  he 
had  had  ;  both  that  and  its  results  were  precious.  Now 
a  new  trouble  had  come,  but  that  also  was  a  form  of 
life  :  he  would  rather  love  and  suffer  and  love  still,  a 
thousand  times  rather,  than  return  to  the  poverty  of 
not  knowing  Helen  Lingard  ;  yet  a  thousand  times 
rather  would  he  forget  Helen  Lingard  than  lose  from 
his  heart  one  word  of  the  Master,  whose  love  was  the 
root  and  only  pledge  and  security  of  love,  the  only 
power  that  could  glorify  it — could  cleanse  it  from  the 
mingled  selfishness  that  wrought  for  its  final  decay  and 
death. 

The  sun  was  down  ere  he  left  the  park,  and  the  twi- 
lisfht  was  rapidly  following  the  sun  as  he  drew  near  to 
the  Abbey  on  his  way  home.  Suddenly,  more  like  an 
odor  than  a  sound,  he  heard  the  organ,  he  thought. 
Never  yet  had  he  heard  it  on  a  week-day  :  the  organist 
was  not  of  those  who  haunt  their  instrument.  Often 
of  late  had  the  curate  gazed  on  that  organ  as  upon  a 
rock  filled  with  sweet  waters,  before  which  he  stpod  a 
Moses  without  his  rod ;  sometimes  the  solemn  instru- 
ment appeared  to  him  a  dumb  Jeremiah  that  sat  there 
from  Sunday  to  Sunday,  all  the  week  long,  with  his 
head  bowed  upon  his  hands,  and  not  a  Jebusite  to 
listen  to  him:  if  only  his  fingers  had  been  taught  the 
craft,  he  thought  how  his  soul  would  pour  itself  out 
through  the  song-tubes  of  that  tabernacle  of  sweetness 
and  prayer,  and  on  the  blast  of  its  utterance  ascend  to 
the  throne  of  the  most  high  !  Who  could  it  be  that 
was  now  peopling  the  silence  of  the  vast  church  with 


THOU   DIDST   NOT   LEAVE.  663 

melodious  sounds,  worshipping  creatures  of  the 
elements?  If  the  winds  and  the  flames  of  fire  are  his 
angels,  how  much  more  the  grandly  consorting  tones 
of  the  heavenly  organ!  He  would  go  and  see  what 
power  informed  the  vaporous  music. 

He  entered  the  church  by  one  of  the  towers,  in  which 
a  stair  led  skyward,  passing  the  neighborhood  of  the 
organ,  and  having  a  door  to  its  loft.  As  he  ascended, 
came  a  pause  in  the  music  ;— and  then,  like  the  break- 
ing up  of  a  summer  cloud  in  the  heavenliest  of  rain- 
showers,  began  the  prelude  to  the  solo  in  the  Messiah, 
Thou  didst  not  leave  his  soul  in  hell.     Up  still  the  curate 

crept  softly.     All  at  once  a  rich  full  contralto  voice — 

« 
surely  he  had  heard  it  before — came  floating  out  on  the 

torrent,  every  tone  bearing  a  word  of  sorrowful  tri- 
umph in  its  bosom. 

He  reached  the  door.  Very  gently  he  opened  it,  and 
peeped  in.  But  the  back  of  the  organ  was  towards 
him,  and  he  could  see  nothing.  He  stepped  upon  the 
tiles  of  the  little  apse.  One  stride  cleared  the  end  of 
the  organ,  and  he  saw  the  lace  of  the  singer ;  it  was 
Helen  Lingard  ! 

She  started.  The  music  folded  its  wings  and  drop- 
ped— like  a  lark  into  its  nest.  But  Helen  recovered 
herself  at  once,  rose  from  her  ministration  at  the  music- 
altar,  and  approached  the  curate. 

"  Have  I  taken  too  great  a  liberty  ?"  she  said,  in  a 
gentle  steady  voice. 

"  No,  surely,"  he  answered.  "  I  am  sorry  I  startled 
you.     I  wish  you  would  wake  such  sounds  oftener." 


664  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 

"  He  didn't  leave  my  brother's  soul  in  hell,  did  he, 
Mr.  Wingfold  ?"  she  said  abruptly,  and  her  eyes  shone 
through  the  dusk. 

"  If  ever  a  soul  was  taken  out  of  hell,  it  was  Leo- 
pold's," returned  the  curate.  "And  it  lifts  mine  out  of 
it  too,"  he  added,  "  to  hear  you  say  so." 

"  I  behaved  very  badly  to  you.  I  confess  my  fault. 
Will  you  forgive  me  ?"  she  said. 

"  I  love  you  too  much  to  be  able  to  forgive  you ;" 
that  was  the  word  in  the  curate's  heart,  but  a  different 
found  its  way  to  his  lips. 

"  My  heart  is  open  to  you,  Miss  Lingard,"  he  said  : 
"  take  what  forgiveness  you  think  you  need.  For  what 
I  can  tell,  it  may  be  my  part  to  ask  forgiveness,  not  to 
grant  it.  If  I  have  been  harder  to  you  than  there  was 
need,  I  pray  you  to  forgive  me.  Perhaps  I  did  not 
enter  enough  into  your  difficulties." 

"  You  never  said  one  word  more  than  was  right,  or 
harder  than  I  deserved.  Alas  I  I  can  no  more — in  this 
world,  at  least— ask  Leopold  to  forgive  me,  but  1  can 
ask  you  and  Mr.  Polwarth,  who  were  as  the  angels  of 
God  to  him,  to  pardon  me  for  him  and  for  yourselves 
too.  I  was  obstinate  and  proud  and  selfish. — Oh,  Mr. 
Wingfold,  can  you,  do  you  really  believe  that  Leopold 
is  somewhere  ?  Is  he  alive  this  moment  ?  Shall  I  ever 
—ever— I  don't  mind  if  it's  a  thousand  years  first— but 
shall  I  ever  see  him  again  Y' 

"  I  do  think  so.  I  think  the  story  must  be  true  that 
tells  us  Jesus  took  to  himself  again  the  body  he  left  on 
the  cross  and  brought  it  with  him  out  of  its  grave." 


THOU    DIDST   NOT   LEAVE.  665 

"  Will  you  take  me  for  a  pupil — a  disciple — and  teach 
me  to  believe — or  hope,  if  you  like  that  word  better — as 
you  do  ?"  said  Helen  humbly. 

How  the  heart  of  the  curate  beat — like  the  drum  of  a 
praising  orchestra  I 

"  Dear  Miss  Lingard,"  he  answered,  very  solemnly,  "  I 
can  teach  you  nothing  ;  I  can  but  show  you  where  I 
found  what  has  changed  my  life  from  a  bleak  Novem- 
ber to  a  sunny  June — with  its  thunder-storms  no  doubt 
— but  still  June  beside  November.  Perhaps  I  could 
help  you  a  little  if  you  were  really  set  out  to  find  Jesus, 
but  you  must  yourself  set  out.  It  is  you  who  must  find 
him.  Words  of  mine,  as  the  voice  of  one  crying  in  the 
wilderness,  may  let  you  know  that  one  is  near  who 
thinks  he  sees  him,  but  it  is  you  who  must  search,  and 
you  who  must  find.  If  you  do  search,  you  will  f.nd, 
with  or  without  help  of  mine.— But  it  is  getting  dark. — 
You  have  the  key  of  the  north  door,  I  suppose  ?'' 

"  Yes." 

"Then  will  you  lock  the  door,  and  take  the  key 
to  Mrs.  Jenkins.  I  will  stay  here  a  while,  and  then 
follow  you  home,  if  you  will  allow  me,  where  we  cr.n 
have  a  little  talk  together.  Ah,  what  an  anthem  the 
silent  organ  will  play  for  me  !" 

Helen  turned  and  went  down  into  the  church,  and 
thence  home. 

The  curate  remained  with  the  organ.  It  was  silent, 
and  so  were  his  lips,  but  his  heart — the  music  was  not 
latent  there,  for  his  praise  and  thanksgiving  ascended, 
w^ithout  voice  or  instrument,  essential  harmony,  to  the 


666  THOMAS   WINGFOLD,    CURATE. 


ear  that  hears  thought,  and  the  heart  that  vibrates  to 
every  chord  of  feeling  in  the  hearts  it  has  created. 
Ah  I  what  is  it  we  send  up  thither,  where  our  thoughts 
are  either  a  dissonance  or  a  sweetness  and  a  grace  ? 
Alone  in  the  dusky  church,  the  curate's  ascended  like  a 
song  of  the  angels,  for  his  heart  was  all  a  thanksgiving 
— not  for  any  perfected  gift,  but  for  many  a  lovely  hope. 
He  knelt  down  by  the  organ  and  worshipped  the  God 
and  Father  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ— that  God  and  no 
other  was  the  God  of  his  expectation.  When  he  rose 
from  his  knees,  the  church  was  dark,  but  through  the 
Windows  of  the  clerestory  many  stars  were  shining. 


THE    END. 


I 


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